Sulfurous Sins
by JinkiesKindaKid
Summary: Knights of the round table, the thirst for revenge, and lots of Lancelot. Can a young Roman woman learn to cope with the cruel twist of fate that has been thrown her way or will she destroy an entire nation in the process?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Although I wish I owned Lancelot and the other knights...I do not. This is just my way of fiddling in someone elses is garden.**

Also this is my first attempt at publishing on , so I'm trying to work out the kinks and I'd appreciate some helpful hints, criticism, or even encouragement. Yours Truly.

* * *

"_Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. __Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."_

_-Dr. Martin Luther King_

**ONE**

"If you press your face any closer, it will go straight through the glass."

"They're coming, Alex."

I can see them flooding out from the shadows of the forest, one line at a time, and too many to dream possible. They drift closer like spirits, but their sharp swords are anything but transparent and their cold eyes are nearly as jagged. They're almost hidden by the waves of snow that rise as they plow through with bitter determination.

I lean into my brother, but even his solid presence can't reassure me now. He rests his heavy hands on my shoulders, but I can feel the tremble he's trying to hide. Alex turns me away from the window. He's put on a brave face. It can't make me overlook the sword hilt rising above his shoulder.

"Why the long face, Sera? Don't you think I can handle a few Saxons?" My brother's voice is light and dishonest. A prickle runs down my spine as I think about their pitiless eyes staring greedily at our home. Can they see me as clearly as I see them? The thought frightens me, but I won't close the curtains. Papa always says it's better to keep a close watch on the enemy. If you can't see the white's of their eyes, you're not close enough.

"I'd hardly call them a few." I try to look out the window once more, but Alex pulls me away.

"Well, you've never been to battle before. This is nothing compared to what I've seen."

"Bragging of your adventures again, Alexandros?" Papa's calm voice startles us both. Alex blushes like a young boy again even though he's seen nearly twenty-five summers. My father is a giant among men, but his words are always soft. Even now, there isn't a wrinkle of worry on his face. When I was a child, I used to trace the laugh lines on his stubbly cheeks, but there was never a trace of fear or worry. I used to call him the laughing king, but he was always quick to remind me that he was no where near kingly.

My father, Konstantino's Petraliphas, our great Roman Emperor's cousin and would be next in line for the throne. Our family was once one of the highest in Rome, the city of my birth, but those days our just blurred outlines in my memory. Before my fifth birthday, we were sent into exile on the barren tundra lands of what was once Celtic land, my mother's land. The Emperor and his court did not approve of my father's choice to marry a Celtic woman. Alex and I were both born out of wedlock. He chose mama and us over the throne.

We've been happy in this place. The Emperor didn't send us to poverty, just solitude. I've never missed city life. Alex is restless at times. He travels with the army when his blood begins to boil, but he always returns with tales of his adventures. I don't remember if we were happy in Rome, but I know we've always been content here.

I love the open spaces and the freedom. I've grown up in the woods surrounding our castle. I've never missed the company of other children. Papa taught me to listen to the animals and the whispers of the trees. He showed me the way to catch fish from the stream nearby and how to ride horses like a man. This is our home and as every second passes those cold blooded Saxons draw nearer.

Even though I try to disguise it, Papa sees the panic in my eyes. He's always been able to read me too well. I want to bury my face in his shirt like I did when I was a little girl. I want him to sing the old songs his nursemaid sang to him. Instead, I stand tall beside my brother. At seventeen, I'm too old for coddling, but Papa opens his arms to me anyways.

"Come here," he orders softly. I let the safety of his embrace envelop me. The thumping of his heart sounds so much like that of the Saxon's drums. Too close. Papa smoothes back my hair and kisses the top of my head.

"We must be brave for the little ones. Don't show them you're afraid."

"Fear is the most powerful weapon," I say, quoting him. Papa smiles proudly and squeezes my forearms one more time before letting me go.

"Go help your mother. Tell her Alex and I will be there shortly." I toss Alex a curious glance before slipping out of the study. He shrugs his broad shoulders and gives me a returning look that says 'I have no idea'. The sturdy wooden door clicks behind me. I peer down the dark corridor and suddenly want to be with Papa again. I wrap my arms around myself and walk briskly down the hall, jumping at each one of my own echoing footsteps under the impression that they belong to someone else. It's strange how I can feel so alone and at the same time be afraid of someone hiding in the shadows. The journey to Mama's room seems to take an eternity. I hurry past the portraits on the wall, some of our family and others of strangers, but every pair of painted eyes bear into me with their lifelessness. None of the candles are lit today.

At last, I can see a fiery glow seeping from underneath Mama's door. The moment I step into the room, my paranoia extinguishes, melted away by the warm fire raging in the hearth. I relish in the heat, letting it eat away the chill from my limbs. Mama smiles tiredly when she sees me. She's cradling baby Theodora in her arms protectively, rocking her back and forth to sooth her wild sobs. Helena tugs at the hem of her dress impatiently, firing question after question.

"Who are those men? Why are we hiding? I'm hungry. Are we going to die?" Mama shoots me a pleading glance. I scoop Helena into my arms. She's small for a seven year old. She giggles when I spin her around. Her light eyes sparkle with innocence. I wish I could be like her, simply curious about the soldiers marching ever closer instead of filled with terror.

"Don't make her sick, Seraphina," Mama says gently. I stop spinning and sit down at Mama's feet with Helena in my lap. She plays with my hair, just as she's done since the day she was born, and wraps the ends around her chubby fingers.

"Theo won't be quiet. Is she afraid?"

"Why would she be afraid?" I ask.

"Because everyone else is." Children are always the most perceptive. Combined with their innocence, it's a strange combination. Even baby Theo can sense danger. She's still whimpering in Mama's arms.

"Are you frightened?"

"I never am!" Helena crosses her arms defiantly and raises her round chin. I tickle her neck and her stubborn expression falters into a sweet smile.

"Oh really?" I tease. "Not even of spiders?"

"Alex is the one scared of spiders."

"Well, then maybe you shouldn't hide them in his bed anymore." Helena's eyes widen with awe.

"How did you know that was me?" I place my lips close to her ears and speak so softly that no one else can hear.

"Because I'm magic."

"Like Merlin and the Woads!" she squeals delightedly. I press a finger to her lips and raise one eyebrow.

"Yes, like Merlin, but it's a secret." Helena looks up at Mama, but she's too preoccupied with Theo to pay much attention to us.

"Does Mama know?"

"No, just us."

"Can you teach me?"

"Maybe when you're older." Helena pouts and pulls away from.

"It's always when I'm older!" she cries. "But I'm not a baby anymore."

"Oh, I know you're not, but magic is difficult."

"But you promise to teach me someday."

"Cross my heart." Helena and I both draw an X over our hearts with our index fingers. She leans into me again, resting her head on my shoulder. We watch the fire crackle and dance in the hearth as Theo finally drifts to sleep. Mama sighs in relief.

"Is your father coming?" she asks in a whisper, so as to not wake up the baby.

"He's with Alex, but he said he'd be here soon." I can see the questions burning on her pursed lips, but with one glance at Helena she swallows them quickly.

"Are those men bad?" Helena asks suddenly.

"Very, very bad," Mama answers. She masks her fear almost better than Papa, but I can see the circles under her glittering eyes. Papa says they're the color of the summer sky. He says she was the most beautiful woman in Rome and even though there are streaks of silver in her golden hair and her hands are scarred from years of hard work, she's still lovely. I've always looked more like my father, with his pale complexion and dark hair, but I've inherited Mama's soft cheek bones. Helena is her spitting image.

"Are they coming to kill us?" Helena's words are muffled by the thumb in her mouth. Mama usually reprimands her about sucking her thumb, but she doesn't have the heart for it today.

"Do you think your father will let them harm us?" Mama says sharply.

"Never." But he's just one man against too many, even with Alex at his side. The thought of them facing the invaders by themselves makes me sick. I hold onto Helena tighter, comforted by her small body in my arms. What will we do? Maybe they'll pass over us. But I know it's too much to hope for. Their drums are the only thing I can hear now.

"Sing us a song, Mama," I say quickly. I need something to drown out the sound and she understands the unspoken request in my words. I close my eyes and focus on her lilting voice singing faraway words from her own childhood with the Celts. She left her accent behind when she came to Rome, but sometimes I can hear it when she sings. I can feel her sorrow resonating through my chest, but it's still not strong enough. It's as though those drums are beating right below us now.

Helena screams as the door suddenly flies open. Mama leaps to her feet, holding Theo so tightly that she begins to cry again, and she steps in front of us. I can't see around her skirts.

"Konstantinos," she sighs, her voice wavering for the first time tonight. She runs into Papa's arms, squashing the baby in between them. Alex crosses the room and lifts me off of the floor, Helena still in my arms. His eyes are grave.

"Alex!" Helena cries excitedly. He tries to smile, but it looks pained. My heart thrums to the beat of drums. The fire winks at us mockingly.

"Alex?" I whisper questioningly.

"We have to go."

"Hurry," Papa orders. He's already pushing Mama out the door. We leave the safety of light and barrel into the dark hallway. One of Alex's hands stays pressed to my back, guiding and reassuring me, while the other clutches the hilt of his sword. We reach the top of the grand staircase. My feet fly over the marble steps. Mama's dress waves in front of me. I'd like to hide under her skirts, but I keep running instead.

The iron front doors bend inwards as an army of men push into it. I can hear then. I can smell the blood on their breath. Helena buries her face in my neck.

"Make them stop," she sobs. I can't find the words to make everything go away though. Papa leads us across the wide foyer. I skid on the rough floor, nearly toppling over but for Alex's hold. We're headed to the Servant's entrance on the other side. Only a few steps, a few that look like miles. The door bursts and I'm deafened by the thunderous sound. Alex pushes us to the ground as a volley of deadly arrows soar past. I tuck Helena against my side to protect her from the hard stone. The taste of blood is heavy in my mouth. It weighs down my thoughts. A rush of air grazes my cheek as an arrow slices past, barely cutting across my skin. I don't register the pain or the fear.

I've heard Alex tell his battle stories a hundred times, but now I understand them. I understand the instinct for survival that roars in your ears, eats at your soul, and drowns out everything else.

A rough hand clasps around my neck, pulling me to my feet. I never let go of Helena and her screams seem muffled, along with Theo's shrieking cries and Mama's pleas. I'm lost in the frozen eyes of the man holding me. He lifts my feet from the floor as though I weigh nothing at all. I can see the white's of his eyes and the icy hate. What have I done to him? He squeezes the breath from my lungs. I tear at his hand, not even able to break through his tough skin with my nails. Helena kicks at him with her little feet, but his hateful eyes are centered on me. He enjoys this, my gasping breaths and my struggle to survive. The world flickers before me as I begin slipping away.

Everything returns with vivid clarity as I fall. Air rushes into me, cutting like a knife. I clutch my chest and stare up at the high ceiling. I see the cobwebs and shadows leering at us. Did they always look so evil?

"Alex! Alex!" Helena's cries drag me from my trance. She's still squirming in my arms. I follow the line of her eyes to see what she sees. Alex's sword clashes with my attacker's. Sparks fly from the impact. My brother looks so small, so vulnerable. I want to run to him. I try to scream and tell him to run, but the words die on my tongue. All I can do is keep my arms around Helena as she fights to escape.

"Run Sera!" Alex grunts, blocking another blow. Each of his strikes become weaker. He's losing. There's an arrow shaft beside me. I clutch the bloody thing in my hands and slowly climb to my feet, warning Helena to stay quiet with my eyes. He doesn't see me until it's too late. I leap onto the man's back and shove the arrow into his throat, pushing it further until I feel hot blood bubbling over my hands. I expected his blood to be cold. The floor shakes as we fall. Alex pulls me up quickly. His face is pale and panicked. All of his war stories, but he never thought he'd have to kill in his own home.

"Take Helena and run as far as you can. Hide somewhere. Don't come back, no matter what happens."

"But-" Alex shakes me roughly.

"GO!" he roars. I'm thrown to the side as another Saxon approaches. I watch my brother swing his sword in a beautiful arch before grabbing Helena's little hand. I nearly crush her tiny bones, but my grip is still slippery from the dead man's blood.

"Come on." I drag her forward. I don't see Papa, Mama, or Theo anymore. They're lost in the chaos, but I run. No one notices us slip through the servant's door. Our snowy footprints will give us away, but there's no time to cover them up. Cold air filters through my clothes, biting my skin with razor sharp teeth. Helena stumbles in the snow that's piled up to her chest. I scoop her into my arms. It takes all of my strength to run away. Alex's worn face flashes before me. I feel like a coward.

"Bring them to the yard!" a metallic voice drifts over the quiet Iceland. They'll see us if we don't hide. I see a rotting tree nearby with a wide opening in the trunk, just big enough for two people. I push Helena into the trunk and clamber in after her. She shivers against me as I cling onto her for dear life. We're hidden by the tangle of branches, but I can still see our home. I only hope the falling snow covers our trail quickly.

"Out here!" A stocky man with a long, tangled beard nearly as pale as the snow, directs the others. He balances a sword in his hand threateningly. I stifle a gasp I see them bring Mama outside. They throw her into the snow. Theo's cries carry over to us with acute clarity.

"Ma-" I clamp my hand over Helena's mouth.

"We can't save them," I whisper. Helena hides her face. I place my hands over her ears tightly so that she can no longer hear. But I can't look away. My eyes are locked on the nightmare in front of me.

"Please, have mercy on my child." Mama cradles Theo to her breast. I can almost see the tears running down her face. The bearded man in charge kneels before my mother. He places his sword against her cheek, but she doesn't flinch.

"There is no mercy here." The man's voice is void of emotion. He stands again and makes a sign to one of his men, who then steps forward and tears Theo from Mama's arms. Her scream rips my heart in two with its desperation and fury. She struggles to take Theo back, but they hold her away. Her arms stretch forward hopelessly.

"But for you," the man in charge says over her cries, "I'll be kind. You won't have to watch your child die." For a second, I can feel hope in my hands. Just as quickly it slips from my fingertips. The warrior holding my mother rams his sword through her stomach. Her silence is worse than her screams. I clamp my hands harder over Helena's hears, but I can't keep her from hearing that silence.

"Kill the baby and bring the men here as well. Let the family be together again." Papa. Alex. I see two limp forms being dragged from the Castle, but I don't want to believe it's them. Theo's cries stab me deeper than any sword. I should run to her, but what would that accomplish. As one of the warriors lifts her into the air, I finally turn away, but I can still see the white's of their eyes and I can still hear the silence.

There is no mercy here. There is no God.

* * *

_"Race you to the creek!" I spur my stallion between the ribs while whispering encouraging words in her flattened ears. Dela's hooves thump against the soft earth as we race through the trees. I press myself close against her neck to keep from being struck with low hanging branches. Her sleek mane tickles my cheeks. I love the feel of her powerful muscles stretching against my thighs. Dela and I fly. My heart beats with hers and the world slips past us in a blur of fiery, autumn colors._

_I never want to stop, but it isn't long before Dela's racing into the creek. Water splashes the hem of my dress as I pull back on her reigns. She rears back on her hind legs and I nearly fall from the saddle. I hum in her ears a monotonous, calming sound and stroke her mane. Dela prances to dry ground. I slide from the saddle. I stretch my numb legs, grimacing as the blood begins to flow through my thirsty veins again. Dela whinnies and rubs her snout against the top of my head, stirring my hair as she snorts. I lead her to the edge of the creek and she instantly cranes her neck to lap up the murky water greedily. Her sides expand as she pants. When I run my hand along her smooth body, a coat of sweat meets my touch. Nearby, I can hear another horse approaching._

_Alex crashes through the trees on his snowy white stead, Dawn. His horse is as light as mine is dark. My brother looks like what I've always imagined the pagan's gods. His wheat colored hair is windswept. It curls at his collar. Mama insists that he cut it, but Alex is too vain. His smooth cheeks are flushed with excitement as he slides from his horse and lands gracefully. Dawn prances to Dela's side and joins her for a drink. _

"_I won," I cry proudly._

"_You cheated. It wasn't a fair start." Alex sits at the edge of the creek close to the horses. I join him, kicking off my shoes and letting my bare feet sink into the cool water which bubbles between my toes and makes me giggle. I pull my skirts up to my knees so that they won't get wet. Mama would fuss if she saw me. _

_Alex catches a falling leaf in his hand. He holds it up to the sparkling sunlight filtering in through the canopy above. I can see every dark vein in the crimson leaf, twisting and curling into nature's story. Alex pushes my hair back and slides the delicate leaf behind my ear._

"_You look like a Woad," he chuckles, while picking a burr out of my tangled curls._

"_But I don't have the blue marks." I hold my bare arm out for him to see. My skin is creamy white with a few spotted freckles that match the ones dusting my nose. Alex inspects my arm for any of the blue designs before shrugging. We sit together and watch the creek play. The trees whisper to each other in muffled tones._

"_Tell me about the Sarmatian knights." _

"_I've told you a million times," Alex groans. It's true, every time he comes home I always ask about the knights. Has he seen them? What are they like? Are they really as fierce as people say? I hear so many tales about the knights from passing travelers who drop by occasionally. Ever since I was a little girl, I've been fascinated with stories of the brave men and especially their leader, Artorius._

"_Tell me again," I plead. _

"_What do you want to know this time?" Alex sighs in defeat._

"_Tell me about Artorius." Alex smiles knowingly. He's the only one I've told of my dream that someday Artorius will come to our forgotten part of the world and take me away to be trained as one of his knights. I used to battle the trees with wooden swords Alex would carve for me. I imagine riding alongside of them, basking in the glory of saving lives and making legends._

"_The great Artorius. There are so many things to say about him," Alex begins. I pull my knees into my chest and rest my chin on them, waiting to hear him speak the words I've memorized by heart._

"_Born to the great Roman Artorius, they're name is older than Rome itself, and a Celtic mother."_

"_Like us!" I squeal excitedly._

"_He followed in his father's footsteps and became a commander of the young Sarmatian knights whose duty lies to Rome."_

"_Why?"_

"_Because we spared their lives after the great wars. The Sarmatians were such fierce warriors; the Emperor couldn't waste their talent. So, for generations, Sarmatian knights have fought for Rome in gratitude for our mercy. Can I finish the story now?" I press my lips together and pretend to stitch them closed. _

"_Artorius is unlike any other man in Rome. He believes in the equality of all men."_

"_What about women?" I blurt. Alex throws back his head and laughs. The sound bounces through the forest and makes the horses shy away. _

"_You're too forward in your thinking, Sera. You and Artorius would be great companions." I can feel my cheeks burning at the idea. "What is this, a blush?" Alex teases, pinching my cheek. I swat his hand away testily and hide my face._

"_Artorius isn't just a great warrior. He has a way with the ladies as well."_

"_Oh, stop it! Tell me about the round table." I rapidly change the subject. There's a new gleam in my brother's pale eyes. He dreams just as much about the knights as I do._

"_Well, it's a table and its round."_

"_Alex!" I cry._

"_Each of his knights has an equal place. There is no head of the table. There is not one man more important than the other."_

"_I'd like to see it someday," I sigh. I lie back in the soft moss and gaze up at the dappled trees, trying to picture Artorius and his knights there. The sunlight glints like the point of the famous Excalibur. _

"_We'll go together," Alex promises. And I believe him. Someday I'll see it all and there will be songs about the Lady Seraphina, riding side by side with the great Sarmatian knights. Someday…_

For hours, I hear them marching, destroying, and calling out to one another. Their boots crunch in the snow as the temperature drops and night falls over us like a veil of despair. Helena's eyelashes are sprinkled with frost. I watch them flutter as she drifts in and out of slumber. Even though it's so cold, her little body is burning with fever. Our clothes were not made for such weather, but I wouldn't dare try to recover our cloaks from inside. I huddle close to her, trying to shield her from the bitter wind that strikes us from the opening in the tree trunk. Worms tickle my frozen skin, but I've stopped brushing them away. Our teeth are chattering so violently I'm afraid one of the Saxon's may hear.

A few of them pass by our hiding place, so near that I can hear their heavy breaths, but none of them discover us. It isn't until darkness has settled completely over the sky that all sound fades away. I know they're gone, but the fear is still lurking in my mind and body. It eats away at me from the inside out, like an itch I can't scratch.

I smell smoke. Helena coughs as the thick smog chokes us. I can see the flicker of angry flames. They strike the windows of our home from the inside, fighting to be free. They've lit our home on fire. As though there were anything left in me to burn. The flames won't spread on the damp earth to where Helena and I are cradled in the womb of a tree. They can't even escape the castle. I imagine all of the portraits burning, those heartless, painted eyes melting down the walls. Can painted people scream? I can hear them in my head. Or maybe it's just the echoes of Mama's own cries. Her body still lies in the snow.

"Sera," Helena mumbles through blue lips. She looks up at me with desperate eyes, still so innocent. Her body trembles in my arms. "I'm so cold," she whispers.

"Someone will come for us soon," I lie, knowing full well that we're alone, an eternity away from anyone other than the heartless Saxons.

"Tell me a story," Helena pleads. Her voice is so weak, nothing more than a puff of smoke dispelling on the wind.

"Which one would you like to hear?"

"Tell me a story about the knights." My chest constricts as an image rises in my head of the gallant knights. Where are they now? Why didn't they save my family? A wave of bitterness unlike anything I've ever felt before rages under my skin, burning hotter than the fire.

"Knights," I scoff. "I don't want to talk of them tonight." I think of my dreams and longing to be one of them and it seems so childish now. How could I ever be a knight when I run at the first sign of danger, leaving all others to die? The thought makes me sick. To think, I ever put my faith in Artorius and his men.

I search through the poison in my mind to find another story for Helena, but she's already drifting off again. The pulse in her neck flutters. She's far too warm. Panic licks at my heart.

"Helena!" I snap. Her head lolls back lifelessly. She peaks at me through glazed eyes before closing them again. The fever is devouring her. I crawl out of our hiding place, ignoring the fear snipping at me, and pull Helena out after me. I place her little body in the snow. Tiny flakes melt on her flushed face instantly. She moans weakly. I strip off my dress and drape it over her.

"Helena, stay with me." I sit beside her and pull her into my lap. I rock her like I did when she was younger and sing one of Mama's foreign lullabies, but the words freeze on my tongue. I place my face close to hers so that I can feel each of her weak breaths hit my skin. They're so cold they feel just like the snowflakes. It's even colder when they stop. I press my hand over her mouth, desperate to touch the air she expels. Nothing.

"No!" I shake her hard. Nothing. I call her name. Nothing. I clutch her small, heart shaped face in my hands and beg. Nothing. I pray. Nothing. I can't even cry. The tears seem to be frozen inside of me along with the pain. Gently, I place her back inside the tree and cover her still face with my dress after kissing her smooth forehead. Her skin is no longer flushed or warm. Death is always cold.

On numb legs I stumble toward the castle. Ash rains down on me, blackening my skin. My undergarments flutter. I kick off my shoes, wanting to feel the ice stinging every part of me so that I can remember pain. Alex once told me that men often become emotionless in the presence of death, but I don't want to be that way. I need to feel. I need to hurt or else what is there to keep me from giving in to the sweet hands of Lady Death?

I promised Alex I wouldn't come back, no matter what. It's the only promise to him I'll ever break and the one I wish I had kept most. Dark blood stains the innocence of the alabaster landscape. I fall to my knees in front of Mama. She's face down in the snow. When I turn her over, her face is still twisted in despair. Her tears are frozen to her eyelashes. I try not to see the open wound in her stomach, but it calls my name menacingly as a reminder that she isn't simply sleeping.

Theo is buried nearby, a spear through her chest. I pull the damned thing free and toss it to the ground. I try to snap the wood in two, but it's too strong. Carefully, I place Theo in Mama's arms once more, covering her gaping wound. I close Mama's wide eyes, not wanting her to see this cruel world any longer, before moving on.

"Alex!" I call weakly. "Papa!" No one answers my pleas. I stumble forward through the night. Mama and Theo are far behind me. I'm rounding into the front yard, guided by the faint light of dying flames trapped inside our home.

"Alex!" I swallow a mouthful of snow, having tripped over something solid. My ankle throbs painfully, but I'm too preoccupied by the man I've stumbled over. I recognize Alex's tunic. I sewed it for him myself, but the blood is new. So much blood. I bite down on my fist to restrain the scream rising in my throat. I look away from Alex's body and vomit.

When I turn away, a nightmare meets my glance. Skewered atop the iron pikes of our gate, the one Papa had made for protection, are two severed heads. They're sightless eyes stare straight through me, screaming accusations. I remember those eyes being kinder, warmer. I remember looking to those faces for comfort and now all I can do is look away from my father and brother.

My scream tears through the night, shattering the silence I've been so careful to keep. I want the Saxons to hear me. I want my rage and agony to call them back to me, so that I can kill them one by one. I've never tasted hatred such as this, but it consumes me completely. I'm lost in my desire for revenge. I crave the sweet taste of blood. Embers smolder in my soul.

As my scream falters, I hear the familiar sound of approaching horses. I look up to see shadowy figures shifting out from the cover of trees, just as the Saxons did today. It's as though my prayers have been answered. They will not destroy my home any further. I will not allow them to desecrate the bodies of my family more than they already have.

I find the hilt of Alex's discarded sword buried in the knee deep snow. My vision is blurred by the blizzard, but I can still see them approaching our gate. It's wide open, inviting them in. I stand on unsteady legs. The tip of my brother's sword sparkles crimson in the dying flames, or maybe it's the blood. I can barely hold the weapon. My numb hands refuse to grip the hilt.

Somehow I manage to burrow through the drifts of snow to the iron gate. I keep my eyes level, refusing to peer up at the gruesome sight directly overhead. Even so, I can still feel they're soulless eyes crucifying me. I place myself firmly in front of the gate as the seven horsemen halt only feet away from me. They're faceless in the dark, mere shadows. I raise Alex's sword threateningly.

"You will not pass!" I roar with all the strength brought on by unbounded fury.

"Drop your weapon," a gruff voice replies from one of the faceless men.

"I shall not let you pass!" It's as though my blood has frozen, turning me into someone I do not recognize. The shadowy figures draw nearer. I can see the harshness in their faces now, emotionless just like the Saxon's. The one in front, obviously their leader, leaps gracefully from his horse. He waves a hand to his men, telling them to stand back as he walks towards me.

"Do not move any closer," I growl, branding the heavy sword. It slices through the frostbitten air. The man halts. His cape flutters behind him. He's taller than Papa, but I'm not afraid.

"I won't hurt you." His voice is soft. It only increases my suspicions. He's too close now. His eyes are the sharpest emerald, like the hard jewels in Mama's favorite broach.

"I will kill you," I warn. He doesn't stop and without hesitating, I lunge. The sword pulls me forward and I stumble. He dodges just in time, the tip of the sword barely catching his cloak. I strike again swiftly, but even in my rage I'm aware how ill practiced my hand is. I'm driven forward by the ice in my veins. It eggs me on, teases me. It whispers words of death in my ear. The man blocks each of my furious blows with a skill much greater than my own, but I don't forfeit. He hisses as the blade slices across his arm.

For a moment we face each other. I cringe under his searching gaze. He holds his sword out to his side and let's go. The weapon sinks into the snow. I waste no time in driving the tip of my sword against his neck. My stomach growls with blood lust. His penetrating eyes never waver from mine. I press the sword harder against his soft flesh, impatient to slice him into a million pieces.

"Lancelot, no!" The air is knocked from my lungs as I'm forced to the ground. Alex's sword slips from my grip. I'm pinned to the ground by one of the other shadows, but he's no longer a real shadow. I can see him clearer than the man I nearly killed. His expression matches my own; hate, loathing, cold. His dark eyes burn in the fire light. His grip on my wrists is tighter than shackles. I fight against him, kicking. He pins my flailing legs down with his knees, so much stronger than me.

Desperately, I lift my head and sink my teeth into his exposed neck. The salty taste of foreign blood slides down the back of my throat. It drips warmly down my chin. I can taste his life force. It's bitter. I only release when he draws his fist across the left side of my face. Blinding light explodes in my vision, quickly replaced by total darkness.

"Stop this!" A familiar voice rings out forcefully through the night. I recognize it as the commander, the man I would have killed. A weight is lifted from my chest as two of the shadowy figures restrain my attacker. I climb to my feet quickly, but my strength fails me and I'm tumbling. The commander catches me. I can't bear his pitying eyes boring into me. I try to push him away, but he holds me tightly until I lose the energy to struggle.

I sink into his armored chest. Whether he is my enemy or my friend, it matters not. The ice under my skin begins to break and the pain surfaces. I miss the anger. It was my shield and now I'm open to the onslaught of grief, worse than any physical torment.

"Kill me," I beg. "Have mercy." I echo my mother's words. But just as then, these shadowy men will give me no mercy.

"You are safe with us," he whispers soothingly. "I am the Roman commander Artorius. We will protect you."

_Tell me a story about the knights._ Helena's last words haunt me. They follow me into the void of unconsciousness. Even there, the pain does not cease.

Artorius. Arthur. Lancelot…


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER: **Sadly, I do not own Arthur or his lovely knights, although I wish I did. This is simply my way of fiddling in someone elses garden.

**A/N: **I'm taking a lot of liberties with this story, sorry if your a hardcore-strict-to-the-plot type. Since I'm writing in first person the point of view does change, but I'll try not to make things too confusing.

**To Anime Princess-** Okay, she did bite him, and perhpas it was a bit over the top. However, she was angry, frigntened, and had no idea who it was she was biting exactly. Although there's a bit of a joke about it later on. Oh yeah, and thanks for giving me my first ever review :D

* * *

"_**The enemy is anybody who's going to get you killed, no matter which side he's one."**_

_**-Joseph Heller**_

**TWO**

~Lancelot~

"Bloody Saxons." Bors curses as he gently lays the dead mother and infant with the other two bodies. Arthur has ordered us to gather the family together so that they may be properly dealt with.

"This is foolish!" I stab my sword into the frozen ground, unable to check my anger. "We're practically begging the Saxons to come kill us all." The men avoid my eyes as they build a makeshift pyre for the Roman family. Rome. Even spoken in my mind it sounds foul.

Tristan crouches down and presses his ear to the earth. His hawk swoops silently overhead. I watch the scout curiously. Over the years that we've been together I've always found it difficult to trust the quiet man. He armors himself in solitude that not even Arthur can penetrate.

"They're long gone," Tristan states. He stands and stretches out his arm for his hawk to land on.

"Long gone or not, let's hurry and be done with this. I don't like this place," Galahad grumbles. He's the youngest of us all. Gawain thumps him reassuringly on the shoulder and glances up at the ashen castle.

"It smells like death," he murmurs. The five of us look upon the lonely building. Ash is still falling around us. It sticks in my throat, choking me with its sulfurous residue. A familiar hate rises in my chest when I peer at the blank face of the tiny babe being blanketed by snow. What monsters are these men?

I saw my own hate in the other girl's feverish eyes. Unconsciously, my hand flutters to my neck and the broken line of teeth marks that still stings. I can see her standing in our path, so small and frail with her blood stained gown swirling around her. Her bare arms sparkled in the dim moonlight as they raised a sword far too heavy for her to carry. I'm not sure the image will ever flee from my memory, but I manage to push it away as the others place the family onto our shaky pyre.

"What about the heads?" Galahad asks reluctantly, jabbing his thumb towards the formidable, iron gate. Before anyone can answer, Tristan is already climbing nimbly to the top, his hawk skimming the air beneath him. I grimace as the two severed heads sink into the thick covering of snow. Bors places them with the bodies of the two men. He closes their glassy eyes and mumbles something so quietly that none of us can hear. Gawain steps forward with the torch. His hard scowl flickers in the fierce light as he prepares to set the pyre aflame.

"Wait!" Arthur's commanding voice shakes through the night. I turn to see him approaching with a limp form cradled in his arms. Hope radiates through us until Arthur is close enough for us to see his grim face.

"There is one more." He lays the broken girl beside her mother. She's just a child. There's no visible wound on her lily white skin.

"She must have run. The cold was too much." Arthur brushes her silky hair from her face tenderly before backing away and giving Gawain the sign to proceed. He tosses the torch into the dry wood. We watch in silence as the fire catches and devours the dead. A different kind of smoke rises, reaching it's tendrils to the stars. It singes my eyes until sooty tears escape.

"God be with them," Arthur whispers. I can't contain my fury any longer.

"God?" I scoff, turning towards him. "Tell me, where is this God, Artorius?" I wave my arms to show him the destruction surrounding us.

"Lancelot," Galahad warns softly. "This is not the time or place." He steps towards me, but I move closer to Arthur.

"Is this the work of your God?" I roar.

"No, it is by the Saxon's hand that this evil has occurred," Arthur answers calmly.

"But your God watched them be slaughtered." I scoop up a handful of crimson snow at my feet. "This blood is on his hands!" Arthur doesn't flinch at my harsh words. I throw the clod of bloody snow into the funeral flames. They hiss in offense.

"Lancelot!" I ignore their calls as I march away. There's nothing left to say. My anger is not numbed by the icy wind. I've lived fifteen years with this rage coiling in my belly, fueled by my hatred towards Rome and the world.

Dagonet is with the horses and the girl. He's kneeling by her side when I arrive. His hand flutters to his sword instinctually as a twig snaps under my boot.

"How is she?" Dagonet's hand falls to his side once more upon seeing it's me. I stand a safe distance away, not wanting to see her again. She's tossing under Dagonet's cloak, her face turned away from us,

"If the fever doesn't kill her, she'll survive. Her wounds are minimal." I crouch down beside them.

"Why did they let her live?" I mumble, more to myself than Dag.

"I doubt they did. She must have hidden, brave wench."

"Don't confuse bravery with folly," I snap, standing abruptly. Dag doesn't have the opportunity to reply. Arthur and the others have returned. Not willing to face them, I make my way further into the woods. The Roman girl should have died with the rest of them. She should be ash reaching for the sky, or for Arthur's precious God. I swing my sword at a nearby tree. The blade sticks into the wood and sap bleeds down the bark.

"Save your anger for battle, my friend." I don't bother to look at him. Artorius Castus; my commander and my friend. Already, I've begun to regret the sharp words I threw at him. His heart is too fair for this world so he turns to one further away where there's a God to bless us with salvation. But I know salvation is for the naïve and the hopeful, not knights.

"What will we do with the girl?" I ask. The question has been weighing heavily in my mind. I know Arthur's answer even before he speaks and it's the very one I've dreaded.

"Take her back with us."

"She nearly killed you, Arthur!" I cry in disbelief, turning to face him reluctantly.

"She wouldn't have."

"You're far too trusting. It will be the death of you yet," I sneer. I saw a murderer in her eyes, but Arthur will always believe the best in people, especially if they're Roman.

"Would you leave her here for the Saxons?"

"Let them have the she-devil," I snort dismissively. Arthur grimaces at my harsh tone.

"She's just a child, Lancelot, a frightened child."

"With a taste for blood. How do we know she isn't in league with the Saxons?"

"It does not matter. We will take her with us," Arthur says firmly. There is no arguing with his decision, even if it will result in the destruction of us all.

"I don't trust her."

"I'm not asking you to," he says gently. For a moment we stare one another down. His thoughtful eyes are wearing me to the bone, until I can't handle them any longer. I'm the first to look away.

"Very well, but I'll be keeping a close watch on her." For the first time tonight, Arthur lifts the corners of his lips in a weak smile.

"I wouldn't have it any other way." He retrieves my sword from where it's lodged in the tree trunk and returns it to me. "Keep this close. The danger is far from over. We must move quickly." Arthur moves to return to the other men, but pauses.

"Lancelot, we ride to our freedom." His words smother the vengeful feeling in my breast for the time being.

"Freedom." It tastes sweet on my tongue, but also delicate, as though one misstep and it will shatter. I call my horse to me and swing into the saddle. Together, we ride through the night, leaving only a pyre of ashes in the black snow behind us.

* * *

~Seraphina~

_Papa holds my hand as we venture through the forest. Even though I'm afraid of the dark, with him at my side, I have nothing to fear. I struggle to keep up with his long stride, stumbling over loose stones every two steps. I've asked him a million times where we're going, but he simply smiles and tells me to be patient. I wish I had thought to wear my trousers. These skirts keep catching in the undergrowth and we're forced to stop so that I can free myself from the forests greedy grasp._

"_They're trying to take you for themselves," Papa teases. "Don't worry, I won't let them."_

_We finally halt at the edge of a small clearing. Wildflowers grow in abundance here, brighter than any I've ever seen, they glow in the silvery moonlight. I let go of Papa's hand and race forward excitedly, longing to touch the silky petals of all colors; golden, violet, the deepest red. I reach forward to pluck a particularly strange flower, pure white with a bud of dark purple in the center. Papa raps my knuckles before my fingers can grasp the pretty plant._

"_Leave it be," he reprimands. "How would you like to be plucked from your home?" I wouldn't like it at all. My cheeks flame shamefully, but Papa isn't angry. He sits before the flower and strokes its petals affectionately. I crawl into his lap where it's safest._

"_Can you hear them, Sera?" he whispers, cupping a hand to his ear. I strain to hear what he's talking about, but sweet silence meets me. Maybe my ears are too little._

"_Hear what?"_

"_Nature speaking."_

"_Papa, nature can't speak!" I say knowingly. He laughs and his chest rumbles against my back. _

"_You must listen hard." I open my mouth to argue further, but he places a finger to my lips. With a sigh, I try to listen again. For the first few minutes nothing changes, but then faint little sounds trickle to me. I hear the gentle wind caressing the trees and making their leaves rustle, like a lover's giggle. I hear the flowers sigh as they sway and swoon. I hear the ground groan beneath us, as though straining under the weight placed upon it. _

_I press my ear to Papa's chest and listen to his heart thumping calmly. It's the most beautiful sound of all. I close my eyes as nature sings me to sleep, a low hum vibrating in the warm air. _

The earth's restless groaning is what finally shakes me from my tumultuous slumber. A hawk cries somewhere in the distance. Something about this place sounds different. The wind is crueler, teasing me as it nips my uncovered face. The trees creak tiredly, as though about to break.

I crack my eyes open slowly, hoping that it's just an echo of my horrible nightmares and that I'm safe in bed with Helena snoring gently by my side. Soon Theodora will awaken with her hungry moans and Mama's feet will patter past our doorway to tend to the baby. Papa and Alex will be sparring in the yard. Everything will be the same as it always has been.

Instead of a dark paneled ceiling overhead, there's a thick canopy, much denser than the ones I'm accustomed too. Only small pieces of sky peek through, the lightest shade of night. Dawn is approaching at her own measured pace. A restrictive weight presses against my stomach. I turn my head to see a man lying at my side. His long locks of dark blonde hair are decorated with icicles. His armor is dusted with snow and small puffs of white breath escape his parted lips to hit my face. I quickly turn my head to the other side only to face a second man, younger than the first. His arm thrown carelessly over my body. He looks troubled even as he dreams.

Cautiously, I lift away his arm and lay it over his chest before sitting up, careful not to waken either of the two men, or the third, who is by far the largest, resting at my feet. I suppress the trembles of fear beginning to rise in my throat. This is no time to be weak, but the memories flooding into me are overpowering. I can feel the pain rising again like a beast of burden, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

I leap over the men and trip into the ashes of a fire that burned out long ago. Seven horses snort sleepily as I scamper past them. I sink down behind a sturdy tree, hidden from the makeshift campsite and the sleeping men. I go to burry my face in my hands only to see them covered in dried blood. Is it mine, my families? Or does it belong to the Saxon warrior I killed? Disgust rumbles throughout me.

I tear open the unfamiliar cloak wrapped around me to see my undergarment. The thin, white gown is nearly transparent and more crimson stains streak the front. With trembling fingers I tear the gown over my head. I wipe my hands in the wet snow, ignoring the cold as tiny flakes cling to my naked flesh. The only thing that matters is that this blood is washed from my body, but no matter how hard I try it sticks to me like a disease, a reminder.

"You'll freeze to death." The sudden voice makes me jump. I instantly regret not bringing something to defend myself with; a dagger from one of the sleeping men or even a pointed stick. The dark eyes piercing me from the shadows are ones that I recognize immediately. I recoil against the tree's trunk, not caring that the harsh bark tears at the exposed flesh of my back. The man steps into the eerie light of dawn.

He wears two swords strapped to his back. They point to the sky proudly. The same pride can be found in his face, in the way he arches his brows. Damp curls spill across his high forehead. His grimy armor is dinted and worn, but it only testifies to the battles he's seen and the lives he's taken. A faint sense of excitement washes over me as I see the scar I've left on his neck. He'll keep that with him forever.

His dark eyes wander from my face. For a moment, my nudity was forgotten, but the unabashed hunger in his eyes rekindles a feeling of shame beneath the pain. Blood pumps quickly through my veins, pushing against my skin until it flushes with embarrassment. Yet, I can't seem to move. I feel as though I'm being pinned to the tree by his stare.

After what seems like an eternity, though is really only a second, the man kicks my discarded gown towards me. I stare at the blood stained garment and cringe.

"No," I mumble. It's so strange to hear my voice. I hardly recognize myself and the lifelessness of my tone. Why isn't the pain inside of me flowing past my lips?

"Then stay as you are. I'm sure the others won't mind," he says heartlessly. I bend over quickly, reluctant to take my eyes off of him, and retrieve the heavy cloak. It's much too large for me, but all the better. The fabric swallows me whole, blocking out a bit of the winter weather, but not enough. My teeth are still chattering together.

"Wh…Where am I?" I stutter. The man leans against a tree and crosses his arms over his chest. We're feet apart, but I feel as though we're far too close.

"In dangerous territory."

"How very detailed," I scoff. "Danger lies in every land." And in every heart. The words raining from my tongue are not my own. They're spoken by the lips of dull rage still lingering within me. Will I always be this way?

"You're Lancelot, aren't you?" He flinches at his own name, as though burned by the connection to himself. We're more alike than he'd ever admit, and more than I like.

"The only knight to wield double swords. Is it to exemplify your skill?" I ask sarcastically. Lancelot steps forward quicker than I can react. He clutches my chin in his firm hand, digging his fingers into the bruise he created. I brace myself for his strike, but it never comes. Instead, he pushes me away with a face twisted in disgust.

"Arthur may pity you, but expect nothing of the sort from me."

"I don't want pity!" The venom in my voice slices through my own skin. "I want revenge." Lancelot smiles bemused as he searches me for sincerity.

"Who are you?' But it isn't Lancelot who has spoken. Arthur appears through the mist. Something in his expression warns me that he's overheard our entire conversation. I stare at him blankly, torn between awe and loathing. Here is the man from my childhood dreams, the hero I've longed to meet, and now that he's truly in my grasp all I feel is disappointment. He's everything I've imagined him to be and he's the man I would have gladly killed. Dreams no longer matter. They were murdered along side my family and here stands the man who was too late to save them, looking at me with such sorrowful eyes. Who is he to be heartbroken? I prefer the hate in Lancelot's stare to this vile pity.

"I am Seraphina Maria Petraliphas, daughter of Konstantinos," I reply with my head held high in defiance. The shock is evident upon Arthur's face.

"Petraliphas," he gasps in disbelief. Lancelot glances between us suspiciously. Arthur steps towards me, but I rear back. "It can't be."

"What is it, Arthur?" Lancelot asks sharply, obviously not one to be left in the dark. Arthur ignores his knight and continues to observe me with mingled disbelief and amazement.

"Your father-"

"Is dead with the rest of them."

"You're the only one left." Arthur's statement brands my soul with its truth. The world has become a lonesome place.

"What is going on?" Lancelot demands impatiently. Arthur's eyes never leave me as he answers.

"She's the Emperor's last remaining heir." Lancelot isn't the only one laughing at Arthur's ridiculous statement, but it isn't a joyous laughter. It rolls through me like hot tar. Arthur's seriousness eventually subdues us. He honestly believes what he's said.

"You're mistaken, Sir Knight." I spit out his title vehemently. "My family has been in exile for years. We're no more welcome in Rome than Merlin himself."

"Perhaps," Arthur mumbles to himself. He analyzes me one more time, searching for a trace of the blue blood running through my veins, before he clears his throat and his eyes return to normal, no more amazement.

"I'll have some clothes found for you before we move out. For your own safety, I suggest you stay within the camp from now on."

"Your wish is my command, Artorius," I snarl mockingly. I turn my back on him and Lancelot and march to the campsite, refusing to limp under their gaze even though my swollen ankle throbs.

The sleeping knights have awoken. There are five of them, excluding Lancelot and Arthur. As I enter the clearing they all stop and turn their war hardened eyes to me. I pull the rough cloak tighter around my shoulders, keeping out the chill in their stares. Tension is thick in the air. Finally, one of them steps forward, a hawk perched on his shoulder. He stands in front of me, not saying a word for the longest time. His eyes are focused and distant all in the same. His hawk shrieks, making me startle. One of the other knights laugh as I nearly fall back into the snow.

"The name's Tristan." The knight before me holds out his hand to steady me. I refuse to take it, but he doesn't seem offended.

"Seraphina," I mutter reluctantly. Before anything more can be said, a second knight steps forward. I recognize him instantly as one of the sleeping men from this morning, the one with troubled dreams.

"Galahad," he states. "And this is Gawain." He gestures to the second man I woke up to this morning with the tangled, dark blonde hair. Gawain nods solemnly before returning to his horse.

"Aye and I'm Bors." The largest of them all looms over me. There's a miniscule scar along his wrinkled brow.

"Dag!" Bors shouts, nearly shattering my eardrums. "Show some manners." The last of the five grunts under his breath. He looks up from the sword he's polishing for just a moment.

"Dagonet," he says shortly. Bors throws an arm over my shoulder, sinking my feet a few more inches into the snow from the weight of it.

"Don't bother with him. He never knows what to say to the ladies." A few of the men chuckle. I don't so much as crack a smile.

I hover along the edges as they prepare to ride out. They joke with one another, laughing and teasing. Watching them is like an arrow to the gut. Loneliness grips me tightly and refuses to let go. Tristan tosses me a bundle of clothing without a word before slipping away. I slink into the shadows to dress quickly.

It's men's clothing of course. I never expected a band of knights to keep gowns with them and I'd rather have breeches anyways. I won't look as out of place, even if the tunic falls past my knees and I have to knot the pants tightly on my narrow hips. The fabric scratches my skin. It smells like dirt, fresh sweat, and masculinity, but no blood. That's all that matters. As a final touch, I tear a strip of cloth from the end of the shirt and tie my long, heavy hair out of the way. If I'm going to dress like a man and crave revenge like a man, then I plan to play the part to the best of my abilities.

I have no one to protect and nowhere to run. The only thing I've left to hold onto is the insatiable thirst for vengeance. The Saxons will taste my blade and if I should die in the process, then all the better. At the first opportunity I'll flee from these useless knights of legend, leaving behind their pitied, cautious glances. I will track down the Saxon army and kill as many of them as I can before following my family to the grave. They will be avenged.

* * *

~Lancelot~

"A Roman princessa." I spit at Arthur's feet, trying to wash the taste of those words from my mouth. The girl's revelation has left a sour twist in my gut, but one glance at Arthur's face and I know he doesn't feel the same. He has been my commander for fifteen long years. He has been a father and a brother. I know him better than my own family in Sarmatia. To the rest of the world Arthur may be a legend or an obedient servant to Rome, but to his knights he is our god and one that I would gladly kneel before. But I will not bow to his Rome.

I can read his thoughts as clearly as though they were etched into stone. He will save this girl. He will lay down his life to return her safely into the hands of Rome.

"Guarding her royal highness is not your duty," I cry, hoping to make him see reason. It is a task I've often strived to achieve and never quite accomplished. Arthur allows himself to break down, his commanding mask slips away. Lines of fatigue and confusion decorate his worn face, but the strength in his eyes never falters.

"You're wrong, Lancelot. It is my duty to Rome, but more importantly, to my heart and to what is right."

"You always listen to your heart!" I throw my hands in the air despairingly at his blindness. "But the heart is foolish. It whispers lies and vulnerabilities."

"It whispers truth and justice," Arthur retorts. We've lived this argument a thousand times, so often that our lines are nearly memorized.

"And what if she's lying? What if it's truly a Saxon ploy to infiltrate our ranks? We know nothing about this girl!"

"It is a risk I must take."

"And us? You force your risk upon us all." Arthur's face twists in guilt. I soften my voice when I speak again, but my words still singe. "Arthur, our freedom is so near. This was to be our last mission for Rome, a simple scouting trip, and now you've turned it into a rescue mission that could end in tragedy for us all."

"Do you think I haven't tortured myself over all of this, Lancelot? Am I that coldhearted in your mind?"

"I wouldn't say your heart was too cold," I grumble. For the first time this morning, Arthur cracks a watery smile. He holds his hand over his chest and sighs.

"I can't even feel it beating beneath this armor." Arthur stares into the distance to where the familiar sounds of the knights preparing for the day ahead are echoing. Their laughter is the sweetest sound I have ever known. The unabashed love in Arthur's eyes keeps me from saying anything more. I find it difficult to look at him with my angry words still lingering between us. Of course he cares, more than must commanders do for their knights.

"I shouldn't second guess you, friend. I know you're only trying to do what you believe is right." Arthur rests a heavy hand on my shoulder. I feel like a child who has misbehaved and Arthur's never failing patience is worse than any punishment.

"Do not apologize! I'm glad you disagree with me, Lancelot. I have never wanted for you, or any of the men, to be my slaves. In my eyes you have always been free men."

"But not to Rome."

"You will the moment we return to the wall. I promise you that." I know only too well that Arthur often makes promises he has no power to keep, but I'm too berated to reply. Tristan's hawk flutters down upon my shoulder, signaling the stealthy scout's arrival. Arthur masks himself once again and straightens proudly.

"A princessa?" Tristan asks with subdued curiosity. I should have known he'd be the one to overhear us. He blends in with the forest better than the rest. If I were as superstitious as some of the men, I'd almost believe he were a son of the woodland fairies Galahad always rants about. Arthur nods dully to Tristan's question.

"You don't appear surprised," I state skeptically. It isn't as though I think he'll betray us, there's just something in Tristan's aloof manner that has always disturbed me. The fact that he enjoys killing more than the rest of us doesn't make our relationship any easier.

"She holds herself with an air of royalty." Tristan shrugs nonchalantly. I search for the words to disagree with him, but they never come. He's right about her. The way she stood before me, without shame even when bare as a newborn child, seems to exemplify something special in her nature. I try to clear my head of the image; her alabaster skin blending in with the pure snow, dark eyes burning like the fires of Hell, cold lips twisted in a defiant snarl. She could be a queen. I've never had a taste for royalty.

"Except for the innocence in her," Tristan adds, causing me to laugh with such force his hawk dismantles from my shoulder disgruntled. Arthur, on the other hand, seems to agree with the scout.

"Just because you can read the land for signs of our enemies, doesn't mean you're as qualified to decipher women. That girl is nothing but hate and the lust for killing." Tristan shrugs again. He never loses his temper, much like Arthur.

"Ah, then the two of you have much in common," Tristan leers. I step forward with my hand gripped tightly around the hilt of one of my swords. Arthur places himself in front of me, blocking the bloody scout from view. By the time I push past Arthur, he's vanished just as stealthily as he arrived.

"Tristan's right you know." Arthur pauses as he begins the short journey back to the campsite. He turns back to look at me with such concern in his eyes it makes me uncomfortable. "I worry about you, Lancelot."

"Is it your bleeding heart again?" I hiss viciously. Arthur shakes his head sadly, as though I've failed him in some way, and it burns.

"Cool your heels before returning to us. We won't ride far ahead."

"Arthur-" I begin furiously.

"You will obey me in this, Knight!" he roars, throwing me off guard. Arthur has never raised his voice to me or any of the others.

"So you're banishing me like a traitor for this witch child!"

"I am trying to save you from yourself, Lancelot," he says sadly, looking away from me.

"I do not need salvation," I hiss, as I brush past him. My blood boils. It pounds in my ears, drowning out the men as they call out to me with questions.

"Do you have the Devil on your trail?" Bors jests, blocking my path to the horses. I shove past him roughly without making a response. I swing into the saddle of my steed and kick him sharply in the ribs. He protests with a whinny, but races forward anyways. No one tries to stand in my way. I see Arthur emerging from the forest and Tristan gazing my way with his knowing eyes.

Worst of all, I see the girl. She watches me barrel away with so much animosity it nearly unsaddles me. I urge the horse to move faster, but the feel of her eyes piercing into me never lessens, even when I'm far from them all. Whether she be a Saxon spy or a Roman princessa, both are races I've sworn as my enemies. One thing is clear above all else, she is more my foe than even Arthur's paltry God.

* * *

Tristan's damned hawk has been stalking me for miles. I've always been as suspicious of the foul bird as his owner. The hawk is Tristan's personal spy. His beady eyes follow me at every turn I make and after an hour or so of trying to lose him, I've finally given up. That bird has been trained well.

To be honest, his presence is almost reassuring. I've grown too accustomed to the companionship of the other knights. You don't realize how eerily quiet these ancient forests are until they're the only thing you can hear. I long to return to the others, but my pride won't allow it. I won't grovel at Arthur's feet, beg for his forgiveness. Deep down I know it isn't what he expects from me. Everything Arthur does is for the good of someone else. He just angers me so with his saving the world complex. I don't need to be saved!

He worries at the fact that I'm angry, but what can he expect? I was taken from my home, my kin, at the tender of age of ten. I was thrown into manhood with two swords in my hands. I was trained by the harshest of all Roman commanders, molded into a killing machine. I have been forced to kill for causes not of my own and that blood will stain my soul for all eternity. The worst of it all though are the memories that I can no longer use to comfort me as I did when I was a boy, because they're so vague now, lost behind the faces of men I've slaughtered. For all of these reasons does Arthur expect me to be content and levelheaded? If it weren't for him and the men, I would have allowed myself to be struck down in battle. Any fate of death would be worse than the slavery I've endured, but my brother's have shared my burden. Now one little girl could ruin the freedom we're so close to achieving.

"We should have left her to die," I shout to Tristan's hawk. The bird stares at me from above with almost a disapproving expression. He swoops low and tugs one of my curls until I swat him away.

"Find someone else to reprimand!" The hawk circles a safe distance above me, but he still refuses to leave. I'd gladly tear his feathers out one by one, regardless the consequences from Tristan I would later face. Of course, I'd even happier pluck apart the darling princessa. I smile as I recall the mottled bruise disfiguring her dainty face, the one I blessed her with myself. My fist tingles at the sweet memory of causing her pain. Though just as quickly a different image comes to mind. I see her collapsing into Arthur's arms.

"_Kill me. Have mercy."_ Her desperate words haunt my memory. I try to block out the moment of helplessness with pictures of her sword pressed to Arthur's throat or her eyes following me from the campsite. It's all a ploy. She's bound to be a Saxon whore, collecting information while playing the victim.

"Seraphina Maria Petraliphas." I mimic her haughty tone. I shouldn't have left Arthur in her treacherous hands. She'll only poison his soft heart. I haven't given fifteen years of my life to that man only to lose him at the last moment.

I toss my pride to the wind and urge my horse to turn sharply. We're galloping at full speed in the direction the knight's are headed. Uneasiness has settled in my breast. The atmosphere is nearly too quiet now. Tristan's hawk disappears for a moment before barreling through the trees with a panicked screech. He perches on my shoulder and clamps his strong beak around my ear. I may not be as connected to the animal as Tristan, but I can understand a warning when I'm given one. I slow the horse to a stop and leap from his back, careful not to make a sound.

"Stay here," I whisper to the two animals as I slink into the thick brush nearby. Armor is effective on the battle field, but an awful inconvenience in situations such as these when stealth is required. I curse the gentle clinking of metal my breastplate makes as I move forward. It doesn't take long for the voices to reach my ears. I follow the sound until I can see the source of the noise.

There, in a gloomy clearing, are nearly two dozen Saxon warriors. I hide as best I can on the outskirts of their camp, holding my breath for fear of even so much as stirring a leaf. I'm too outnumbered to fight them, but I can listen and knowledge is just as valuable a tool as daggers and arrows.

The Saxon's are moving about the clearing frantically, obviously preparing to depart. Two men are dawdling by my hiding place, so near that I can almost count the scars on their twisted faces. Their conversation carries to me on the bitter wind and it stings more than the cold.

"If the little bitch hadn't gotten away we'd be warming ourselves by a nice fire now," the larger of the two grunts. Their voices make my blood turn to ice.

"Maybe Cedric will let us have a little fun with this one. If she's as attractive as her mother was, it'd be worth the march through this godforsaken land."

"Her mother? Before or after Cerdic ran her through." The men laugh dryly. My stomach curls as an image of a woman with a gaping wound in her stomach and a slaughtered babe in her arms swims before my eyes. My hands itch to wring their thick necks, but another thought keeps me from doing so, a terrible thought.

"Scout says the knights have our Princessa now."

"Cerdic won't be pleased with that information."

"If we bring her to him, he'll never have to know."

"And the knights," the giant man spit's the word out like a curse. His companion's face lights up with morbid delight.

"Kill them all."

I don't stay for the rest of their conversation. Already the band of Saxons is preparing to move out and I know without a doubt where they're headed. Our only hope is for me to warn Arthur and the others before these bloody Saxons launch a surprise attack.

I push my horse faster than ever before. He'll probably drop dead of exhaustion, but there's no time to be cautious. Tristan's hawk flies ahead of me, no doubt soaring to warn his master. My heart pounds frightfully as I analyze all that I've heard.

So she's royalty after all and just as I predicted she'll lead us straight to the grave**.** Damn Romans always make trouble.


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own the knights...blah blah...wish I did...blah...oh well.

**A/N:** I don't plan having stagnant characters, so don't worry. Seraphina's not always going to be a crazy, bloodthirsty, angsty kid-o...well, at least not as much as she is now. She's a bit stupid at the moment. I guess watching your family brutally murdered does things do a person, eh. Thanks everyone who's read so far.

* * *

"_We hate some persons because we do not know them;_

_and we will not know them because we hate them."_

_-Charles Caleb Colton_

**THREE**

~Seraphina~

Everyone's been tiptoeing around the topic of Lancelot. Arthur rides ahead the rest of us with a brooding disposition. He hasn't spoken a word to me since my revelation, but I can't forget the look in his eyes. This man obviously thinks I'm far more important than I really am.

_The Emperor's last heir…_

I smile sardonically at the very idea. Rome doesn't even know I exist. I was just a bastard when we left, an abomination to the royal family. Arthur glances back at his knights, something I've noticed he does quite often. It reminds me of my father, always checking on me, always making sure I was safe. The memory makes my eyes burn with unshed tears that I'm forced to fight against. I won't show weakness in front of these men. This is hardly the place for hysterics when I'm surrounded on all sides by stony faces and weathered weapons.

"Red sunrise, blood has been spilled," Gawain states solemnly, voicing an old superstition Alex used to believe. I raise my eyes to the gloomy sky. Dawn in this place isn't the soft pink from home; it stains the canvas above in deep red. I shiver from more than the cold and pull my cloak around me protectively.

Galahad's sympathetic gaze washes over me. Of all the knights he's been the most bothersome. The other men treat me with a mixture of distrust and forced courtesy. They're not cruel, but they don't make an effort to make me feel welcome in their tight knit brotherhood. Galahad is the only exception. At every corner he's extending a hand of friendship in my direction. I return his gestures with aloofness.

My family was more open with one another than was probably proper. We felt no shame in affection or love. I was raised to express myself and now I find I'm locked away in the dark recesses of my mind. I can't even bring myself to feel guilty when the young knight rides away, obviously hurt.

"He's young," Gawain informs me in a low voice. I'm uncomfortable by his nearness. His hot breath stirs my hair. Gawain's armor is like ice, even through the fabric of my clothes. There's not even the benefit of warmth from our close proximity, but there was no other option than to share a horse with one of the men and I quickly refused Galahad's offer.

"And he means well," Gawain continues.

"I'm not here to make friends."

"No, you're here because we saved your dainty ass. A pinch of gratitude would be nice."

"I didn't ask to be rescued." We both hear the unsaid ending to my statement. I'd have rather died with my family. Gawain snorts in contempt as he tugs on his bay's reigns.

"You're going to be a difficult one aren't you, girl?" I don't grace him with an answer. Instead, I catch Arthur's glance as he turns back once again. Who does he think I am? The great Arthur; he's even more majestic than I ever imagined. Yet it means nothing. I can't help wonder if anything will matter again or if I even want it to. I'm making a cocoon of apathy and it's safe here. The only emotions stirring inside of me are dangerous ones with bitter edges. I feel powerful wielding them, polishing them into the finest weapons.

"Do you see that?" I ask sharply, suddenly pulled from my reverie. A hawk appears to swoop from the mouth of the frightful sunrise. With a gut wrenching cry it dives towards Tristan at the front of the line, closest to Arthur.

"Oh, that's just Tristan's bloody bird." Gawain's relaxed words don't ease the tension knotting in my stomach. Something's awry and I'm not the only one to sense it. Tristan's face darkens as his hawk flutters frantically around him, seeming to whisper something in the scout's ear. Arthur's sharp eyes are already scanning the horizon. We're in a field, open on all sides to enemy attack.

Gawain tenses behind me as the unmistakable thud of horses hooves reach us. I feel his hand move quickly to the sword strapped at his waist. I recognize the black stallion charging towards us as though the devil were closing in. I also recognize the man. Even from this distance he's unmistakable with two sword hilts raised high.

"Lancelot," Gawain sighs, relief flooding through him.

"This isn't right," I whisper. Lancelot doesn't slow his breakneck pace until he's directly in front of Arthur. Gawain, along with the other knights, hurry to knit the small space between themselves and their commander. Lancelot's eyes are feverish. Both he and his horse are lathered in sweat.

"Saxons," he huffs breathlessly. An instantaneous rumble rises throughout the men as a volley of questions strike Lancelot.

"How many?"

"Where?"

"Why?"

"Let him breathe!" Arthur roars over the racket. He turns his eyes on Lancelot with a look of pure concern, but Lancelot brushes it away impatiently.

"I can breathe later. We must take cover quickly. They've been on my trail for miles." So I wasn't far off about the Devil chasing him. Arthur doesn't hesitate. Within moments he's leading us back to the wily forest all around. Once we're safely in the shadows, Lancelot answers all of the questions thrown at him.

"There are at least two dozen of them. I didn't have time to count properly."

"Can we outrun them?" Arthur asks hopefully. The grim expression on Lancelot's flushed face is enough of a reply.

"Then we fight!" Bors shouts, breaking the heavy silence that fell between us. "Two dozen of the bastards are hardly an army."

"We've faced worse," Dagonet adds in agreement.

"Why are they returning this way? Last I checked the Saxons were moving opposite us." Tristan's question spurs all of the knight's interest. Lancelot fires a glare in my direction, not bothering to hide the accusation in his eyes. I brace myself for the answer that is bound to come.

"They've been sent to capture the Roman princessa," he snarls. Another uproar rises throughout the men. I can feel Gawain pull away from me, disgust rolling off of him, and all the others, in nearly visible waves. Their hostile stares shred through my skin.

"It can't be true!" I cry furiously. With difficulty, I slide to the ground, needing to have solid ground beneath my feet once again. I instantly regret the action, feeling small with the giant knights towering above me on their mounts.

"I'm not a princessa!" The word is difficult for me to say. It almost tastes too sweet on my tongue, and at the same time harsh. It's too wrong, but they're all staring at me with clear skepticism in their eyes. Why would they take my word over Lancelot's? I turn to Arthur desperately, knowing he's the only one I may be able to convince. I clutch his saddle and refuse to flinch under his unwavering scrutiny.

"You must believe me. I've already told you, my family was exiled long ago. We are nothing to Rome!" Arthur's expression is unusual in its subdued sadness.

"I believe you, but being exiled doesn't alter the blood in your veins."

"No!" I scream, my throat tearing from the force of it. I'm not the only one screaming though.

"You knew who she was!" Bors spits accusingly at his commander.

"She confessed this morning," Lancelot answers, the disdain in his tone evident. He leads his horse closer to the other knight's so that they're all facing Arthur. It's as though I'm witnessing a crucifixion. Their betrayed eyes are ramming the nails into Arthur's soul.

"I confessed nothing!" But they don't hear me anymore.

"The whole Saxon army will come down on us!" Gawain cries. "Think of the power they'll have with a Roman Princessa as their hostage."

"Arthur doesn't think. He only listens to his heart," Lancelot jeers.

"I am of no consequence! This is a misunderstanding. I-"

"BE QUIET!" Bors bellows. Arthur's jaw clenches tightly as he faces his largest knight, but his voice is deathly low.

"Royalty or not, you will show courtesy towards her as a woman. She cannot help who she was born."

"I was born no one!" Tristan gallops to my side and looks down at me coolly.

"Arthur's right, you have royal blood in your veins. Exiled or not, Rome won't look too fondly on having one of their own taken by the Saxons. It would be an embarrassment."

"Rome, Rome, Rome," Lancelot groans. "I have yet to see where this is our problem!"

"We can't abandon her," Galahad argues, his young face set in determination. "We're knights. It's our sworn duty to protect those in need of our help."

"You sound like Arthur," Gawain snorts.

"And is that so bad?" None of the men are willing to meet Galahad's steady gaze. Another tense silence digs its talons into us. My fate hangs in the balance and yet I find myself quite calm. It matters not what they decide. They may as well leave me now, because I plan on dying soon with or without their assistance.

Arthur's looking at me now in resignation. I squirm away from him. There's something in his old and weary in his eyes. Guilt begins to gnaw on my bones, but I hold it at bay, filled with disgust at the emotion. If he wants to die for me I won't waste my energy trying to argue. After all, he's the almighty knight. Who am I to try saving him? And yet a darker question twists in my mind. Who am I to kill him? I peer through the forestry, trying to make out the approaching Saxon's. Already their presence treads across my sanity.

"They're here," Tristan states. We can see them raising along the open field now, a glaring mar on the natural beauty. Arthur scans his men, a different emotion on his face for each of them, but all full of affection and respect. He's torn between a loyalty to his men and a duty to his country. Even as an outsider I can see that clearly. I don't miss the unflinching allegiance of his men either.

"You'll owe us a round of drinks when we return to the fort," Bors finally grumbles.

"The finest wine Rome has to offer," Arthur concurs with a bittersweet smile. He's relieved to have the support of his men and fearful of what could become of them. It's a fine line for the great leader to balance upon.

Without another moment's hesitancy, each man takes up his weapon. I flinch unwillingly as Lancelot swings his double swords dangerously close to my face, a mocking glare on his lips. Gawain extends his free hand to pull me back onto his horse, but with a firm order, Arthur stops him.

"She will ride with Lancelot." There is no arguing with him on this. Before I can protest, Lancelot sheaths one of his swords and with shocking strength, lifts me in front of him. The black stallion paws the ground as he adjusts to my minimally added weight. The Saxons are half way across the field. They move with a practiced assurance, under the belief that they are invincible. I straighten in the saddle. Tristan approaches our side, stroking his mare's tangled mane. He removes a slim dagger from his belt and tosses it to me without saying a word. I accept his gift with equal silence, sliding the slim weapon into my own belt as Tristan falls behind us once more.

"Are you frightened?" Lancelot whispers tauntingly in my ear.

"I'm excited." I'm shocked by the honesty of my answer, but I cannot misconstrue the emotions coursing through me. That new hunger chews at my innards, contorting them in its grip. My heart pounds with impatience. I remember the fear from my first encounter with the Saxons. I recall the terror and this is nothing similar. It's intoxicatingly overwhelming, the desire to kill, to deliver pain. Lancelot laughs darkly behind me.

"And if we fail, my lady? If I were to let you slip-"Lancelot grabs the collar of my tunic and pulls me sideways roughly. The motion is so quick none of the preoccupied knights notice. "And you were to fall into the hands of one of those lonely men." His words send chills down my spine and I taste the first morsels of danger. "I'm not afraid to die," I declare truthfully.

"On my command, we charge," Arthur cries from the front. He sends one last meaningful glance in Lancelot's direction and nods his head to me, before facing our enemy…my enemy.

"It isn't death you should fear with these men," Lancelot says, his voice black as night against the back of my neck. I watch Arthur raise his sword in the air, the tip of his blade glinting fiercely in the still bloody light of dawn.

"RUS!" he roars. The sound shimmers through every inch of me. Lancelot twines his arm around my waist and follows his commander to whatever lay ahead. His hold on me feels less like a protective embrace and more like an imprisoning shackle. I find myself clinging to his arm as we fly over the soft ground, kicking a wave of snow behind us. My fingers slip on his smooth armor. I keep my eyes leveled on the band of Saxons and relish in their dimmed surprise. They obviously weren't expecting us to attack first, but it takes mere seconds for them to regain their composure and arrogance. To them we are out numbered, but I've heard enough stories about Arthur and his knights to know the odds are not against us.

Lancelot breaks into the line of men fearlessly, slashing his sword through flesh, bone, and soul. The clash of metal upon metal rings in my ears. It isn't loud enough to overpower the screams and groans of dying men. I lose sight of the other knights as Lancelot's stallion winds through the confusion of bodies with trained maneuvers. He's obviously been prepared for battle.

Blood splatters across my sleeve as Lancelot deftly executes an approaching Saxon. The crimson dots seem to spell out my own sick pleasure at watching them fall under Lancelot's blade. I'm not ashamed of the joy roiling inside of me. My only qualm is that I'm not able to destroy them myself. Lancelot's grip on me remains unbreakable.

Out of the sea of battle a mammoth Saxon leaps in front of us with his stained axe raised. He doesn't flinch as we charge towards him. The man slashes his weapon close to our stallions flared nose and the animal rears up on its hind legs, suddenly skittish. I reach for his reigns, but they slip through my numb fingers. Lancelot's arm falls away for a split second, but it's enough to send me sliding to the left, easily unseated from my precarious position. I hit the ground hard and roll to avoid the stallion's strong hooves failing wildly. I reach for the skittish horse, but it's already galloping away, leaving me with the intimidating Saxon. Alone, always alone.

I expect the fear to make an appearance now. It never shows. Instead, I stare up at my enemy with cold, calculating eyes. He's lumbering towards me, tossing his axe from hand to hand as though it were as light as a feather. I'm not fooled by the ease in which he carries the weapon. Its glinting edge is a reminder to the damage it can inflict on my soft skin. He moves in slowly, savoring his struggling prey. I crawl backwards, scanning the ground for anything useful.

The Saxon grins toothily, revealing pointed, piss colored incisors. He swings his axe over his head. Time trickles to a painfully slow pace as the blade slices through the glassy air towards my legs. I flip onto my stomach and use my elbows to pull myself forward, barely avoiding his blow. I hear the axe thud into the frozen ground and the Saxons disgruntled groans as he tries to free his weapon.

Only feet away a man lies strewn face down in the snow, an arrow protruding from his crooked spine. His sword is still clutched tightly in his hands. A wave of renewed hope streams through me as I crawl towards him. I'm so close when I feel myself being pulled back. The Saxon has his meaty fist clamped around my swollen ankle, his face twisted in delight as he nearly lifts me from the ground. I reach desperately for the dead man's sword. I dig my fingers into the hard earth until they bleed.

The man looms over me, his weight crushing my ribs. He tugs a lock of my hair and sniffs it with a sneer. I remember the hunger in Lancelot's eyes when he found me naked this morning. This man's is nothing like that; it's vicious and wild. Even with his comrades rotting on all sides of us, one thing tears at this man's mind. Did they look at my mother this way? As though she were nothing more than a toy for them to enjoy before breaking. The idea sends a fresh wave of wrath down my spine. I will kill him.

I shiver in disgust as he runs his dry tongue across my bruised cheek. As his hand roams between my legs, I don't allow myself to lose focus. The grip on his double edged axe has visibly weakened. He tears at my borrowed tunic. His hot, rancid breath makes bile rise in my throat, but I don't fight, because I need him to be distracted as I reach cautiously for his axe. The only purchase on the weapon I can gain is on the blade. It bites into my palms. I fight back the scream crashing against my gritted teeth. With one strong tug, I wrench the axe from his relaxed fist. Before he can register what I've done, I bring it down into his thick thigh. All lust drains from his face, replaced with terrifying fury. I try to strike again, but he's much stronger than I am.

He grabs my arm and twists until I hear bone crunch. A tingle of agony shoots down into the very tips of my already torn hand and the axe falls with a thud. The Saxon wraps his entire hand around my neck and squeezes. I'm torn to another time that feels like a lifetime ago when I was in a grasp similar to this. Only Alex isn't here to rescue me now. I'm going to die without avenging him, because I'm weak. I ran from them when they needed me. Black shadows swirl in my vision. My lungs burn and I'm sure that if I were able to speak only ash would fall from my lips.

"_Are you afraid?"_

"_I'm excited."_

A miracle of bitter air cuts into my mouth, cooling my lungs. I clasp my neck where his hands were only moments before, bewildered by my sudden salvation.

"Alex?" I murmur dazedly. When my vision clears, it isn't my brother driving his sword into the Saxon's gut. Thick, blue veins protrude in Galahad's neck as he strains against the exhaustion so obviously clinging to him. He presses his sword deeper into the larger man until they're nose to nose like lovers. The Saxon collapses, nearly taking the young knight with him. Everything is still. The steel in Galahad's bright eyes flickers away, leaving an amusing astonishment. I tear my gaze from him to focus on the carnage left at his feet.

Red. Everything is deep red. I can't control my body anymore. The monster inside me rises with gusto. With a strangled cry that echoes across the battlefield, I leap on top of the fallen man. The angry demon burrowed in my chest lends me the strength to tear Galahad's sword free from the man, just to bring the blade down on him again. I smash the hilt into his lifeless face, cutting away the sneer he wears even in death. I hate him. I hate them all, even Galahad standing behind me in shock. I can feel the eyes of every one of the knights as I strike the dead man over and over again until he doesn't look human anymore. His still warm blood splatters across my face, blending with my own. I can see my family in his glassy eyes; Mama, Theo, Papa, Alex…Helena. I don't even notice Galahad's blade is doing just as much damage to me as the man beneath me.

"Seraphina!" a gruff voice calls my name, but I can hardly hear them through the rushing in my ears. I slice the man from groin to collarbone, dragging the sword tip through his thick muscle. I'm drowning in blood. I stab the lifeless beast in his manhood, relishing in the irony. He'll never take advantage of another woman again.

"Stop this!" A strong arm grips my wrist as I lift Galahad's sword once more. The monster in me hisses defiantly as someone tries to pull me from the mutilated body. I cling to the man's shattered armor. I can't let him go. A wild scream rumbles from my chest as the sword is wrenched from my slippery hold. A rough hand cups my chin and forces my eyes away from the body beneath me. Lancelot's fathomless eyes are intense.

"He's dead," Lancelot whispers hoarsely. "Let go." His coaxing voice calms the monster of wrath into the dark parts of me once more. I can feel him hibernating, waiting for the next attack, and an awful sense of dread flushes into my heart. For a brief second all of my emotions war with one another; guilt, pain, sorrow, hate, and longing. Lancelot's face blurs and I find myself reaching towards him helplessly. The warrior steps away, leaving me to fall face first in the snow. My body is so wasted I can't even push myself up. Every muscle stings.

With immense effort, I lift my eyes to see Lancelot walking away, moving through death's wasteland. Arthur kneels before me and wipes the snow from my face with a gentle hand. I scuttle away from his touch and try to stand on my own, but my legs are shakier than a new born colt's. Bors sweeps me into his burly arms with a grunt. I can't even find the strength to argue. My head collapses against his stained armor.

"Come on, little one," he mumbles, his rumbling voice surprisingly soft. I close my eyes as he carries me far away from the destruction, but I can't block out the sound of carrion birds screeching excitedly or the earth weeping as it's forced to drink the spilled blood.

"_Papa, nature can't speak!" I say knowingly. He laughs and his chest rumbles against my back. _

But she can cry.

* * *

~Lancelot~

The crackling flames whisper tender confessions in my ear, lulling me into a sense of soft security. They dance sinuously over the faces of the men. Fire; the true seductress. I brush my hand across the heady, pine scented smoke as though caressing a ladies cheek or lifting her skirts to find her inner mystery, but fire is a practiced woman and she knows how to tease. She makes my heavy eyes water. I long to close them and drift away into her world. When I give in to her charm, tendrils of smoke brush my cheeks like smooth hair. I relish in my own imagination until the ever present darkness rises behind my eyelids.

It can't leave me in peace! This bitter confusion and distrust. The fire in my mind takes on a new form, leaving the pleasant warmth and singeing my fingertips instead. I see Seraphina clearly. My hand tingles as I recall the feel of her own slipping through my grasp. It was so sudden. I watched her cut through the air, but it was her expression that left me bewildered. Her eyes overflowed with such intense desolation as she reached for something to grasp, for me. The same look blossomed when I pulled her away from the dead Saxon, so much hopelessness I couldn't bear to be near.

"She reminds you of yourself." Galahad places himself beside me. It isn't until now that I realize I've been staring blankly into the dancing flames, as though watching some intriguing story unfold. I try to return to myself, but a piece of me seems to be drifting in the smoke. Galahad begins to polish his blade. I shiver at the memory of Seraphina's vicious attack. I've seen horrible things in my fifteen years as a knight, but nothing as frightful as today's events. I remember all too vividly the blood covering her pale face.

"I'm not afraid to admit that I see myself in her," Galahad continues at his own pace.

"There's nothing to admit for me," I snap, sharper than intended. I soften my tongue before speaking again. "We're nothing alike."

"Maybe not." The young knight shrugs. He sets his sword on the ground and rolls his shoulders to ease the pain in his muscles. Out of all of us, he's the slenderest. Galahad's never had a taste for killing. I was surprised at his enthusiasm this afternoon when he came to the Roman girl's defense.

"I remember when they came for me." Galahad's gaze is far away now, in a different time and place that we've all traveled to less and less these past fifteen years. "I remember thinking they were the most terrifying beings I'd ever laid eyes on and yet so…" he trails off, at a loss for how to describe the Roman commanders.

"Wonderful," I finish for him knowingly.

"Made for battle, they were like creatures carved from stone. Were you frightened, Lancelot?"

"Of course. And you?" I swallow the sour lump in my throat. Galahad looks at me and his dreamy expression dims.

"I think I pissed myself." His youthful face illuminates when an embarrassed smile flickers across his lips. I let out a hardy chuckle and his grin only widens. Sometimes he's so young I wonder what he's doing here with the rest of us in this godforsaken land. Then Galahad's face hardens, lines of exhaustion etching deep into his almost boyish skin. He runs his fingers through his thick, matted curls and sighs.

"I'd never felt so alone in my life. In one day everything I'd ever known was torn away, my family, my home, and even my country."

"We were all heartsick in the beginning," I say consolingly. Those first years are always the hardest, when the memories are still far too potent to be ignored.

"I still am heartsick." Galahad turns to me suddenly. My breath catches at the seriousness in his blue eyes. I remember how bright they were the first day he came to us and now they're clouded with the darkness that broods in us all.

"Lancelot, if it weren't for all of you, for Arthur-" His tone is nearly sickening with adoration. "I would have ended my own life long ago. You're all so much more than my comrades in arms. Each one of you has become my family." I'm disturbed by his spoken confession. Sure, we all feel a bond that runs deeper than most contingents of knights, but we don't wear our emotions branded on our sleeves.

"If it weren't for that beard, I'd believe you to be a woman," I scoff lightly, trying to play up the moment. Galahad smiles halfheartedly and looks away once more.

"She needs a family," he says cautiously, blatantly afraid of my reaction.

"And you'll be her brother?" I snort derisively. His folly is nearly as amusing as Arthur's. I'm surrounded by the weak hearted, if one girl can bring them sniveling on their armored knees.

"I can be her friend."

"She doesn't want friendship, Galahad." She's made that clear at every opportunity. But that look she gave me, her hands reaching towards me…I drill the idea from my mind. It's far too ridiculous when I summon another image of her hate filled, stormy eyes. Galahad would be better off staying as far from her as possible. Judging by the determined set of his jaw, I know my advice would not be heeded, so I keep it to myself. He'll learn the hard way, just like the rest of us.

"There was a time when you didn't want our friendship either." Galahad's words are so soft that I'm not even sure he's really spoken until he departs, sword in hand. I watch him walk hesitantly to the sheltered cluster of trees where Dagonet is tending to the girl's wounds.

"Silly boy. Tell me he isn't love struck with a Roman?" Bors is quick to claim Galahad's empty space. Gawain settles down across the fire from us. I take the flask of watery ale he offers me. The stale liquid burns my throat, but it dulls the ache in my body.

"Not love struck," I choke. "He's just too kind."

"And naïve," Gawain adds glumly, glaring at the young knight through the flighty flames. From the very beginning Gawain took it upon himself to watch over the younger man. It seems Galahad has overlooked his advice, as well as my own hints, to steer clear of the girl.

"She's trouble." Gawain throws a handful of snow into the fire, making the flames hiss indignantly.

"She's a child," Bors argues. I'm shocked he's taking the Roman's defense, but he simply shrugs his broad shoulders at our questioning looks.

"Children don't hack apart the bodies of dead men!" Gawain cries.

"I wouldn't exactly call that a temper tantrum," I add.

"So she's angry. I'd probably have done the same if those bloody Saxons had cut down my family."

"You must be referring to your illegitimate one," I chuckle, thinking of his eleven bastard children and the lovely Vanora.

"I'll marry her someday. When we're free…" He fades off with a glazed expression.

"If we're ever free," Gawain snarls. "We'll be chased back to the fort with the entire Saxon army nipping at our heels. I say we hand her over now." Bors slams his fist against his knee, his eyes sparking with quick anger.

"And if she were your daughter, Gawain?"

"I have no children."

"Then your sister, mother, lover? Would you feed her to the beasts then? You know what they would do to the girl!" I grimace at the menacing images his words stir. Yes, we all know too well what her fate would be should the Saxons claim her. After all, beneath all of her wounds, she's a pretty one. Gawain flounders under Bors rage, but he doesn't back down.

"She isn't our responsibility," he mumbles. "Since when do you give a damn about Roman's?" Bors takes a swig of his ale and wipes his lips with the back of his hand before answering brassily.

"The question is, since when did the two of you lose your damned souls?"

"When they brought me to this Hell," Gawain replies sharply. Bors is silenced, but I can't bite back the retort that surprises even me.

"She wasn't the one to bring us here." Both of my companions stare at me in disbelief. Am I defending the she-devil now? Unsettled by the silence, I rise.

"But that doesn't mean I like her," I add honestly before turning my back to the flames.

"Selfish bastards," Bors curses. I can't help but smirk as I depart out of hearing range. Maybe he's right, but I have every right to be selfish after sacrificing myself a thousand times for a country not my own. Why should I willingly serve Rome now at the end?

I glance her way when I feel the uncomfortable prickle of her eyes on the back of my neck. She's looking at me with an accusation written boldly across her mottled features. Oh, how I'd like to wring her slender neck. Yet at the same time I can't rid myself of this wavering guilt for letting her fall, not once, but twice today.

Damned Romans. Damn women. Damn her.

* * *

~Seraphina~

Bruised, battered, and bloody. I hardly recognize my own body beneath the puckered, discolored flesh. My bones ache to the very marrow and all I long to do is curl into myself, drift into unconsciousness, and never return. This nightmare is never ending. For the hundredth time I pinch my wrist, hoping the slight nip of pain will awaken me.

I gasp reflexively as Dagonet's large hand rests upon mine. He turns my arm in his wide palm to see the crescent moon marks decorating my skin. His face seems to be set in a permanent scowl as he brushes the self inflicted wounds with his thumb. I pull away from his touch and cross my arms stoically. Dagonet returns to lying out a few supplies from his satchel; bandages, herbs, and a bowl and pestle to crush them in. I watch him as he works with delicate movements. It's hard to believe only a few hours earlier he was slicing through a field crawling with men.

Once he's done mashing a concoction of unfamiliar herbs, he reaches for my hands once more. Before I can scamper further away, he clutches my arm firmly and begins to clean the deep wounds in my palms. I hiss at the shooting pain, but hold my head high. Days ago such things would have left me huddled in tears. My eyes don't so much as water. Dagonet applies his fresh paste of herbs. It burns for a moment before fading into a soothing cool. The mixture smells bitter.

"Never grab a sword by the blade," Dagonet reprimands as he bandages my hands.

"It was an axe," I grumble defensively. "And I didn't have much of a choice." I startle as Dagonet reaches for my belt, the action quick as lighting. He removes the dagger Tristan gave me and inspects the little thing.

"I doubt that would have saved me." Even as I say the words, my cheeks flame with chagrin. I should have thought of the dagger sooner, but my mind wasn't in the best of states on that battlefield. I'm no warrior. Dagonet presses the flat of the dagger against my cheek. My breath falters instantly.

"One quick move and you could have blinded him." He throws the knife into my lap and continues checking the remainder of my cuts and bruises. My ankle is twice as swollen as it was this morning, the tender flesh is a sickening purple. Breathing is a trial as every inhalation sends a fresh wave of agony through my chest. Dagonet catches me clutching my side.

"Take off your tunic," he orders.

"I will do no such thing!" The giant man moves forward with a no-nonsense look in his viridian eyes. I sigh heavily before holding my hands up in surrender. He turns away to give me a moment of privacy while I raise the ill fitting shirt over my head. I wrap it around my chest tightly, leaving just my stomach and shoulders exposed. The icy air snaps at my bare skin greedily, stealing the small warmth the clothes held in.

Dagonet lets out a low whistle as he inspects my swollen ribs. His touch, no matter how careful, makes me wince. A small cry escapes my cracked lips and I berate myself for the display of weakness. A flash of sympathy flitters across Dagonet's expressionless face. He retrieves more clean bandages from his satchel.

"Nothing's broken, but I suspect you've cracked a rib or two." He binds the bandages around me tightly, squeezing the breath from my body. Now tears have begun to prickle behind my eyes. I wipe them away fiercely when he turns to collect his things. Suddenly my bare skin burns in a familiar manner. I glance towards the source of the presence I feel pressing against me.

Lancelot stands apart from the others at the fireside. His scowl is readable even in the muggy light filtering in from the trees. Discomfort flutters low in my belly, like a flock of birds trying to escape. I drape my hair over my unclad shoulder self-consciously. It isn't enough to keep out his indefinable glare. I'm the first to look away. The sting of his eyes still doesn't leave as I pull the stained tunic over my head once more and wrap my heavy cloak around me, burrowing my chin into its enveloping folds.

Someone clears his throat and I glance up, expecting to see Dagonet. Instead, I come face to face with none other then Arthur. He's offering a hunk of brown bread, which I take greedily. I can't remember the last time I've eaten anything. I ignore Arthur's concerned inspection as I devour the stale bread.

"Slow down or you'll make yourself sick," Dagonet warns. I overlook his advice. Once I'm done my hunger still isn't satiated. Arthur chuckles, the sound is warm, as he reads my famished expression. He tears another, smaller chunk from the loaf in his hand.

"Pace yourself," he says, handing me the second piece. This time I nibble cautiously at the morsel, savoring the thick texture.

"How is she?" Arthur asks Dagonet. A wave indignation floods through me. I'm perfectly capable of answering questions concerning my own health.

"I'm fine," I snap, before Dagonet can. Arthur's eyes twinkle with amusement which only fuels my displeasure further.

"You're lucky to be alive, Princessa."

"Do not call me that." The dangerous edge in my voice slices right through his amusement. We stare at each other for a tense moment. He probes me with those emerald orbs while I struggle to maintain my flinty glare.

"If none of her wounds attract an infection, she should heal fine, but she needs rest. Her fractured ribs won't be able to handle days in the saddle." Dagonet subtly brings an end to the moment between Arthur and me. I return to staring at my bread, as though the grains can tell me the answer to all of my problems. Arthur rubs his hand over his stubbly chin ponderingly. He looks so worn that I nearly soften towards the man. Just as quickly, his serious mask returns and all thoughts of trusting him vanish. This man is a warrior, not a friend.

"We'll find a safe place to camp until she's able to ride. With luck the rest of the Saxon army will not learn of their comrade's defeat for some time. Find Tristan and tell him to scout around for sheltered areas nearby." Dagonet nods once before disappearing to search for the scout. Once he's gone I build up the courage to speak my mind.

"It's too dangerous. You and your men should leave now."

"Just me and my men?" Arthur picks up on my mistake. I can't let him discover my plans to escape as soon as the opportunity should arise.

"All of us," I correct quickly. "Saxons prowl this land. We've always had problems with rogue bands of them."

"But they've never hunted you or your family until now?" Arthur questions, a deep wrinkle creasing his brow. I don't know how to answer him. The same query weighs heavily in my mind. Why now?

"We'll wait for you to heal," Arthur states firmly. I'm learning quickly that it's useless to argue with this man. 'Try to sleep." His cloak swirls as he steps in the direction of the fire where his men are waiting. Loneliness takes its chance to strike. I recoil from its grasp.

"My brother-" I call out before I can stop myself. Arthur freezes, his back still turned to me. "My brother," I repeat trembling. "You were his hero. He used to tell me stories about you and your knights." A long silence stretches between us. Galahad's laugh booms over to us and it reminds me too much of Alex's, so full of life and ease.

"I am no hero," Arthur says solemnly, his voice rough. I've seen the way his men look at him trustingly. To them he is a god. To me Arthur is just another man who is not my father, not my brother. Maybe that's why I hate them. Arthur departs without another word. He joins Gawain, Galahad, and Bors by the fire. Somewhere in the fast approaching darkness, the other three knights are patrolling the forest.

I curl onto my side, sheltering myself from the men nearby. I shiver as the cold settles into my bones, but brush away the idea of moving closer to the fire. It can't warm my frozen heart anyways. With no one looking, I beg the tears to flow free. They stay locked inside of me. I want to cry for them, but I'm afraid that the pain will be too much to bear.

Without realizing it, I've begun to pinch myself again. Instead of waking up I slip into the waiting arms of shallow slumber.


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing, with the exception of Sera. Her angsty little self is all mine and she has a tendency to make the painfully clear.

* * *

"_Do not walk behind me, I may not lead._

_Do not walk in front of me, I may not follow._

_Just walk beside me and be my friend."_

_-Unknown_

**FOUR**

~Seraphina~

One thing haunts me day in and day out as we cower in this secluded place, deep in the bosom of the forest, and that ghost is escape. The hideout Tristan chose is just as much a prison as it is a haven. We're at the base of a steep cliff, dwelling in the formidable incline's gloomy shadow, with a frozen river curled around our campsite on two other sides, and a tangled expanse of forestry as the fourth wall holding us in and everyone else out. It's a quiet sanctuary, but I'm suffocating in my own uselessness. Thoughts of revenge rarely leave my mind. They're rotting in my gut and I often find myself retching as though my emotional torment has morphed into something physical. Three days we've been stationed here while my wounds heal. I'm not the only one itching for freedom. The knights are obviously restless. Only after the sun sets and they're joined together in the warmth of the fire is their impatience eased. Every night I sit on the edge of their companionship. The joy of their laughter never reaches me and they don't invite me closer. Sooner or later someone is going to explode. Whether it be Lancelot or Gawain, who still strike me with their glares and callous words at every opportunity, or maybe the roguish Bors, whose impatient scowl etches deeper into his broad face every day. They're vicious warriors, not babysitters, and that's what Arthur's forced them to become.

Every second of every day I'm watched. I can hardly relieve myself without being followed and a moment of peace to plan my getaway is impossible. Arthur treats me with gracious courtesy, but I'm not fooled by his charade. There's no doubt that I'm a hostage, fighting uselessly against my bars, whether they be made by nature or human flesh. Hope of liberation is slipping further out of my grasp. I can't sleep. All food tastes the same; burnished metal. I'm not just Arthur's prisoner, but a captive to my own anger as well. It's screaming for release, but I can't satisfy the need while I'm here, and it seems I'll never make it anywhere else. As soon as Dagonet deems I'm well enough to travel, they'll take me with them to Rome, or wherever, and I'll be left to live with this wrathful curse until it drives me to insanity. Arthur thinks to save me. He's only killing me.

At least the men may come and go as they please. Even now they're out hunting. Although what creature will fall into their cunning traps now, I do not know. Winter's embrace on the world is firm and crushing. They've left Galahad as my warden today. The young knight is stubborn. Every time I turn around he's there with a kind word or gentle smile. It's becoming increasingly difficult to treat him with cold indifference. His youthful charm is welcoming. A part of me longs to take the offer of friendship he's holding out to me. I find it humorous that Bors calls me the child, when his fellow knight can't be much older.

I watch Galahad as he tends to the horses with discipline and affection. His scarred hands brush his own chestnut mare's luscious mane. She nuzzles his curly head and my heart hums contently in response to his innocent smile. I find it hard to believe he's the same man I witnessed on the battlefield three days ago, towering over me with his sword deep in the belly of my attacker. Galahad must feel me watching. He turns his bright smile in my direction and I find that I'm drawn towards him.

I walk delicately towards Lancelot's black stallion, keeping a distance between myself and Galahad so as not to give the wrong impression. The horse huffs in my face, expelling a hot puff of breath that smells terribly of oats, and tugs at the collar of my tunic with his teeth. When I don't retreat, he pushes me gently on the shoulder and cranes his neck, exposing himself to my hands. I stroke his bristly coat greedily, relishing in the familiar feel of thick sinew under my fingertips. He reminds me of my own horse, black as coal, and far away in another life of mine. I wonder if the Saxons slaughtered her or claimed her for their own.

"He doesn't usually take well to strangers," Galahad states offhandedly, dragging me from my bitter memories. I stare into the stallions large, doe eyes. They're as deep as his master's, but not half as cutting.

"I've always been good with animals. Can we go for a walk?" The desire to move, to feel the blood pumping through my legs, is suddenly overwhelming. I need room to breathe and I feel too trapped here. Galahad scans the campsite, his expression thoughtful. After a handful of contemplative moments he makes his decision.

"Alright, but we can't go far. Arthur would hang and quarter me if anything happened to the horses or our supplies." I nod understandingly before moving in the direction of the frozen stream. I pause at the edge of the bank and place one delicate foot on the ice, testing its strength. When it doesn't crack beneath me, I place all of my weight on the slippery surface. Solid as the rock wall on the other side of the camp. I skate forward, savoring the wind that chafes every inch of uncovered skin.

"What are you doing?" Galahad cries, slightly panicked, from the bank. I spin around to look at him, a weak grin struggling to control my lips.

"I'm flying!"

"You'll fall through!" I roll my eyes at his mother hen act and slide further from him. He'll be forced to follow if he wants to be a good guard. Sure enough, I hear his exasperated sigh and the sound of his boots crunching on the ice. He doesn't slide with grace like me, instead he plows. I find myself laughing at the look of sheer weariness on his face. He looks like a little boy just learning to walk and his scruffy beard only makes the scene more ridiculous. Galahad stops in front of me and cocks his head to the side with a question in his raised eyebrow.

"What?" I gasp, clutching my stomach and trying to subdue my manic giggles.

"You're smiling," he says incredulously. "And laughing!" Now I understand his surprise. I haven't so much as smirked since I've been with them. I lower my eyes and focus on the ice, marveling at the pristine water swirling below the surface. Is the tide begging to be free as well?

"I used to laugh all of the time." There's no trace of joy in my tone now. Galahad lifts his heavy hand, as though to touch me, but quickly thinks better of it.

"It's nice to see you happy," he says instead. His honesty makes me shuffle uncomfortably. Why does he have to be so understanding? It's easier to carry the burden of Lancelot's accusations than this. I don't want to be understood. It only makes my chances of escape even less. It makes a small piece of me want to stay, but I owe it to my family to leave. I sigh and rebuild my indifferent fortifications again, blocking myself from him. Galahad senses the shift. The light in his eyes dims and I feel something like guilt prickling at me. Guilt; it's another emotion I've grown accustomed to.

"We should probably go back," he suggests. I'm about to concur, when something a little ways down the river catches my eye. Galahad calls after me as I glide towards the curious thing, but I ignore him. I bend down next to the bank and peer down at a peculiar green leaf barely peeping from the cover of thick snow. Carefully, I uncover the brave little plant that's managed to survive in this ice land. It's a miracle. I pet the familiar white, fragile buds as an idea formulates in my mind.

I know this plant. It grew in abundance back home during the spring. Mama used to have us collect basketfuls of the stuff. She made tea for Papa on the nights he was struck with insomnia. I remember her words clearly the first time she showed me the plant.

"This is called valerian," she said, crouching down in the dirt and cradling the white blossoms much the same as I'm doing now. "It'll lull the strongest man to the deepest sleep of his life. If you use too much he may never wake up." Another smile creeps across my lips, but this one is devilish.

"What is it?" I didn't even hear Galahad approaching. Quickly, I wrap my hand around the plant's stem and yank it from the frozen ground, unearthing the knotted roots. Before Galahad can see, I tuck the valerian into my cloak, hidden from view.

"Nothing," I lie, standing too fast. Galahad catches my shoulder before I slip on the ice. He scans my face for the truth.

"I thought I saw something, but it must have been a trick of the light." Galahad narrows his eyes, not quite sold on my story, but he decides to go along with it. We walk back to the campsite in silence. He skillfully starts a fire and the flames are dancing within seconds. He hangs a lightweight, iron pot over the fire and begins dumping in whatever's left in the provision packs; celery, cold meat, some moldy looking radishes. All the while, I cling to the sneaky little plant concealed beneath folds of fabric. It's my ticked out of here.

As if the world were finally on my side, a terrifying crash resounds as a tree limb succumbs to the weight of icicles hanging from it and crashes to the forest floor. The horses go wild with fright and Galahad hurries to soothe them, turning his back to me and the knight's supper bubbling in the pot. With deft hands, I retrieve the valerian and crush it in my fist. For a moment my hand hovers over the steaming concoction, a million questions burning through my mind. Will it be enough? Or will it be too much? I find myself reluctant to drop the sleep inducing plant into the pot, not wanting to accidentally poison the knights, mostly Galahad.

This is why I shouldn't have softened towards him! Without another moment's hesitation, I open my fist. The valerian is swallowed by the bubbling contents just as Galahad returns. I mask my face in innocence, praying he won't see through the disguise. Now my guilt is raging like a full blown epidemic. But what choice did I have? One way or another I will have my revenge and my funeral. I won't let a kind hearted knight stand in my way. This is my only chance. I won't regret what I've done.

* * *

~Lancelot~

A thick, savory smell assaults us when we return to camp. Gawain sniffs the air, his stomach rumbles audibly over the sound of our crunching footsteps. We pause at the edge of the clearing. I spot Seraphina huddled near the fire. The glow illuminates her nearly transparent skin and only amplifies the careful shield of aloofness she wears so well. She nods absently at something Galahad's saying, but I doubt she's really heard. Something in her expression tonight bothers me.

Gawain spits into the snow disgustedly, but keeps his silence. Bors crashes to our sides, holding a mangy hare in one large fist. There's hardly enough meat on the tiny creatures bones for one man, let alone seven.

"Nothing thrives in this wasteland," Bors grunts, lifting his scrawny catch to eye level.

"Except Saxons and whores," Gawain snorts, nodding his head towards the girl by the fire. As though she's heard the vibrations from his insult, she turns to see us, and looks back into the exuberant flames just as quickly.

"Aye, but whores would keep us warm on these unbearable nights."

"Don't even think of it," I say sharply, following his line of vision to the princessa. "She'd cut you quick with that dagger of Tristan's."

"I don't like virgins anyways," Bors grunts as he enters the camp ahead of us, swinging his prey. "They always cry."

"I think I'd rather bed a Saxon," Gawain mutters. I laugh at his foul temperament and thump him once on the back, so hard he bends forward a bit. Gawain grins devilishly and together we join the others. Tristan's crouched near the girl and feeding his hawk crumbs from his palm. Bors whips a slim knife from his belt and begins to skin the rabbit with skilled hands. The girl frowns daintily as he peels the skin back from the animal's narrow skull. Her bruised face is disfigured further by a slight green sheen. I can't comprehend how she can gut a man from throat to groin without flinching, but the sight of a skinned rabbit makes her squeamish. Bors has begun to slice the meat from the bones. It falls in a depressingly small pile at his feet.

"I see we shall feast like kings tonight!" Arthur's voice falls over us all. He sweeps in to the camp, Dagonet at his side, with an air of gaiety I haven't seen in awhile. His eyes catch mine for a moment, a smile shining from his pupils.

"And queens," Galahad adds. The girl's already disgusted expression only sours further.

"In this weather your pretty face will freeze in that grimace," I taunt. Her smoky eyes swirl with fury. I know how much she hates jabs such as those.

"If only your lips would freeze shut as well." Bors lets out a hardy laugh, Arthur tries and fails to hide his grin, but I am not amused. I place myself as far from her as possible. We're all sitting around the fire, the cold and wilderness kept at bay by the warmth from our bodies as well as the flames. I rub my hands together and relish in the sparks of friction that heat my numb fingers. The night sky creeps over us, but the first stars are yet to show their coveted faces. Bors has finally given up the hopeless task of making a meal out of his rabbit. He buries the poor thing in the snow and accepts the bowl of watery broth Galahad passes him.

Steam wafts in my face as I lift my own battered bowl to my lips, feeling the grain of the wood against my chapped flesh. The taste is unpleasant. I choke down a burning swallow and feel the vile sip rebelling in my belly. Bitterness lingers on my scorched tongue as I set the bowl aside and reach for a hunk of bread instead. The others drown the contents of their dishes in one swallow. I'm not hungry enough to bear the disgusting flavor.

Once the pot is empty and the sound of greedy slurps fade away, a sense of calm seeps into our circle. Galahad closes his eyes and hums a gentle tune, one reminiscent of home. The girl's eyelids begin to flutter and within minutes she's tilting into the ground. Her curtain of dark tangles covers her sleeping face. I catch Arthur watching her as well with a light in his eyes I've never seen before, more of a question than anything else. Not for the first time, I wonder if this insane mission of his to protect her goes beyond duty. Could he possibly care for her?

"Guinevere will be worried when we don't return as soon as expected," I say lightly, trying to disguise the heavy handedness of my words. Arthur is no fool however and he knows me far too well.

"She's probably still fuming I didn't allow her to come with us."

"Aha!" Bors cries. "So that's the real reason we're cowering in this hole like dogs! You're afraid of returning to the wrath of your lady love." His words are slurred with fatigue.

"And what of your Vanora?" Dagonet asks. Bors face blanches noticeably and he takes a large gulp of ale from the flask at his hip.

"Absence only makes the heart grow fonder," he mutters sullenly, making us all laugh.

"When are you going to choose a woman, Lancelot?" Gawain asks out of the blue.

"Oh, the day when Galahad finally looses his innocence." The young knight's face flushes, overpowering the indignation in his eyes. Bors slaps his knee and bellows louder than the rest of us combined. Even Tristan grins.

"Then you'll be a free man to the end of your days, my friend," Gawain jeers, thumping Galahad on the back. He lifts his own flask into the air. "To Galahad, the purest of us all!"

"To Galahad," we cheer. Arthur watches our foolish revelry with an amused smile. He rarely joins in on our games. It wouldn't be dignified for a Roman commander, but the twinkle in his eyes gives him away. I lie down, folding my arms behind my head. It's as though the sky is teasingly lifting her dark skirts to show the first few stars. I trace the constellations with my eyes. Years ago, in another lifetime, my father first drew them for me.

"Will you go home?" I hear Galahad whisper quietly, his question directed to no one in particular. "When all of this over."

"It'll never be over lad," Bors replies foggily. "You'll live with this nightmare forever." There's a brief pause. I hear the familiar sounds of rustling as the men settle in to sleep. I can distinguish each of their different breaths; Bors's deep, Dagonet's even, Arthur's steady, Tristan's wispy, Gawain's raspy, and Galahad's cautious. Only one of them is unfamiliar, the girl's, it trembles, surprisingly vulnerable.

"I think I'll go home anyways," Galahad mumbles. I sit up in time to see him roll over, shielding his face with his arms against the wind. They're all soundly asleep, but my blood is pumping too hard to join them.

On light feet I move swiftly to the edge of the campsite and begin to pace at the forests edge, keeping rhythm with the chorus of their breathing. It's the most beautiful song I've ever heard, another one of our longing for home.

The night is peaceful until a shadow stirs in the corner of my sight. I duck further into the darkness and watch the slender figure creep over the unconscious bodies of my brother's. It would seem our little princessa has decided to make her royal departure. She doesn't spot me moving behind her, just another monster lurking in the dark.

* * *

~Seraphina~

Bors snores. It makes the earth quake. I step over Galahad, stopping for only a moment to tuck his cloak tighter around his shivering frame. A fleeting pang of guilt resurfaces when he grimaces in his sleep, but it dissolves quickly. There's no time for more regret. I pull the hood of my cloak over my head as snow begins to trickle down from the yawning abyss overhead.

As I scamper to the formidable cliff face a bittersweet smile crosses my lips. A large part of me didn't believe my plan would play out so nicely. After a trail of disappointments these last few days, I'm finally headed in the right direction, and that direction is up. Crossing the frozen river or cutting through the dense forest would be the easier paths to take, but I've decided to climb out of this prison. Arthur and his men won't sleep forever. They'll be on my trail the instant my sneaky plant digests through their systems. Hopefully, by taking the more difficult route and doing the unexpected, I'll have bought more time for myself.

I tilt my head back until I'm nearly pulled down by the weight of it. The cliff rises into the darkness, seemingly without end. I feel lost at bottom of the universe and the only way out of this blank eternity is to climb to freedom. I glance back at the dwindling fire one last time. It's so inviting. Just as my resolve is on the verge of crumbling, a fresh wave of famished desire growls within the depths of my soul. With renewed determination, I take hold of a protruding ledge, standing on the very tips of my toes to reach it. I've never realized how weak I am until now.

My arms shake as I lift myself, using every ounce of strength in my body. My legs flail wildly as they search for a foothold. I'm only a few feet off the ground and already my muscles are screaming in agony. Sweat drips into my eyes. It stings, but I can't wipe it away.

Halfway up the incline the holds become scarcer. I'd like to let go and just fall into the darkness. The ground seems to open its mouth below me, waiting to gobble me up should I slip. Only the monster inside my mind encourages me with sugar coated words, pushing me further. I bite my lip until it splits. Hours trickle past, but night still reigns supreme. I send a silent prayer to God. It drops uselessly, swallowed by the hopelessness of my situation. God won't aide me on this mission of revenge and murder. I'm alone with my demons.

My foot fumbles on a narrow ledge and I find myself tilting backwards. Desperately, I reach for anything to hold. My fingers twine around a thick root growing from the surface of the cliff. I pull myself flat against the rock, hugging it with more passion than I would a lover. I kiss the solid stone as my heart pounds to the sound of pebbles clattering downwards. I could have been just another of those pebbles; doomed. It takes a long time for my limbs to steady enough to continue. It's even harder now to make myself move, but the thought of Lancelot's sneering face gives me the boost I need. I won't damage my pride further by having them find me stuck here in the morning, trembling with fear.

I feel as though this will never end when my fist closes around open air. With one last tug, I collapse onto solid ground once more. The world spins for a moment as I peer over the edge at the journey I've just traveled. My stomach churns at the steep drop, but a delicious sense of accomplishment covers me like a soft blanket.

I'd like to relish the new freedom coursing through my veins like liquid lighting. It takes every ounce of self restraint not to yell out in excitement. I sober myself with a firm reminder that there's still a long way to go. Pulling the hood of my cloak further over my eyes, I look forward for the first time. A stunning scene waits to greet me; no trees, just a blank expanse of white, glittering in the silvery moonlight.

My first few steps leave a glaring scar of footprints in the untouched snow. I feel as though I'm shattering the purity of the land with my muddied touch. I'm not worthy to be here, in this place. I think back on the days when Mama read to us from the grand Bible with the leather cover, her voice softening the sweetest words of God's endless love and mercy. She was born a pagan, but upon coming to Rome found the holy light that was always apparent in her eyes. She insisted we pray three times a day. My fingers flutter to the crucifix tucked beneath my tunic. I bring it out into the open, hoping it may make up for my sinfulness.

I've killed one man and desecrated another's body. I'm driven by the evil hand of revenge. The crucifix burns under my fingers, as though trying to wriggle free from my grasp. What have I become? The answer returns to me in the voice of my mother; a monster, feeding off of hate. My feet falter. I glance up at the open sky, searching for guidance and finding vast emptiness.

"Giving up already?" For a moment, I'm startled by the dark, velvety voice; thinking God's spoken to me after all. God must be awfully close. I turn sharply and the figure towering behind me is far from holy. Lancelot stands firmly, his arms crossed over his broad chest, and his lips twisted in cynical amusement. I should have known it had all been too easy to be true.

"Of course not," I snap in reply to his question. I jut my chin forward indignantly and straighten to my full height, which isn't nearly enough to match his. I feel like a child in his presence. Lancelot smothers a smirk and waves one hand dismissively.

"Then what are you waiting for, Princessa?"

"You won't stop me?" I ask disbelievingly. I was prepared to fight him kicking and screaming for my freedom, and he's simply going to let me go. Lancelot can't contain himself any longer. His booming laughter sends a chill down my spine as it breaks the silence.

"It'd be easier for me if you left." A slight frown replaces the humor in his shadowed face. "You won't survive long out there." I turn away from him to hide my guilty expression, but his sharp eyes must have caught a glimpse. Understanding flickers behind the careful indifference in his fathomless eyes.

"You don't plan on surviving though," he states knowingly.

"My plans are none of your business." I take a step forward, prepared to leave him behind without another word. I don't travel far before I'm stopped again by the turmoil in my heart. The demons in my mind are begging for revenge whereas Mama's voice is coaxing me to let go of this hate. Confusion clouds the surety I felt earlier today.

"Is it wrong to want revenge?" My words are so fragile, I'm afraid they'll break before reaching his ears. I can feel him lurking behind me and if it weren't for his presence I would have fallen to my knees long ago, bowed down by the war in my conscious. He's standing at my side now, still a safe distance away.

"I wouldn't know what is wrong or right." I make the mistake of looking at him. The intensity in his eyes unbalances me. His stare is dangerous, troubled, and captivating. This man unnerves me more than the rest and I only loathe him more for it. He'd gladly let me die and yet he's followed me here. Why? His frown deepens at my unconcealed bewilderment.

"Does that really work?" The moment is broken as he nods to the crucifix still clenched tightly in my fist, disdain dripping from every pore of him. I let the cross fall against my chest. Its burnished wood glints in the moonlight.

"It used to," I sigh, thrown off by my own honesty. It must be the pure setting that makes me unwilling to lie. Lancelot makes a strange guttural sound, something in between a snarl and a chuckle.

"Did its mystical powers cease when your Roman family was slaughtered?" His harsh words smack me across the face, harder than his fist did the night we met. The monster in my chest expels a stream of smoke, but I'm too stunned to react. Lancelot reaches as though to turn my face to his, but quickly rethinks the action. Are all of them afraid to touch me! Am I such a disease?

"I saw everything," I whisper weakly, despising the coldness in my tone. "They killed my mother first. They broke Theo's neck before stabbing her through with a spear. I can still hear her crying." With steel in my eyes, I meet Lancelot's gaze. He doesn't show any emotion.

"And you will avenge them?" I flinch as Lancelot agilely removes one of his swords from its hilt. He swings the blade towards me, stopping just as the cool metal grazes my neck. I'll never grow accustomed to shaking hands with death and danger. He lowers the point and throws the weapon to me. I'm pulled down by its weight. Lancelot laughs cruelly.

"You can hardly hold a sword!" He retrieves his weapon from where it's fallen in the snow and sheathes it deftly. I glare at my feet, trying to disguise my shame as anger.

"Praying suites you better, Princessa," Lancelot snarls. He turns to depart, but his condescending words have become too much. The pent up monster lashes out.

"I can learn to fight!" I scream as I rip the crucifix from my neck viciously. I throw it at Lancelot's feet, along with everything it entails. The message is clear to both of us. To Hell with what's right and to Hell with me.

"Killing isn't as easy as you think."

"Teach me!" It's Lancelot's turn to be stunned. He bends down, scoops my crucifix from the snow, and dangles it in front of me.

"No," he states tonelessly. I cross my arms defiantly, refusing to retrieve my cross from him.

"Take it," Lancelot orders threateningly.

"It isn't mine to bear any longer." He grabs my hand and attempts to pry my fingers apart. Without thinking, I lift my free hand in the air and bring my palm down hard across his cheek. For a moment we stand frozen in place, one of my hands caught in his hold, the other still pressed to his flushed cheek, and a cross swinging between us. I wait for him to retaliate, but when he finally does move, it's only to remove my hand from his face gently.

"You're bleeding." I remain motionless as he slips my cross around his own neck. Lancelot reaches for my hand again, but this time he asks permission. "May I?" He takes my lack of reply for acceptance. I remember to breathe when he cradles my hand in his, befuddled by the tenderness in his touch. The bandages Dagonet so carefully attended to are nothing more than shreds of fabric. My wounds have split open and are bleeding freshly. Crimson drips down my arms in rivers.

"These need to be cleaned," he states softly. I hiss as he pries a small rock from where it's embedded itself in my cut. Lancelot's eyes find mine. I've never seen concern there before. It makes my belly clench. I wriggle out of his grasp. This is one of his sneaky tricks, distract me with kindness. I won't be fooled into doing his bidding.

"Will you teach me to fight?"

"You were serious about that," he scoffs incredulously, quickly reverting to the man I've grown to despise. I feel safer in this familiar territory. One glance at my stony expression is a clear sign of my sincerity. As much as I'm loathe to admit it, Lancelot's made a valid point. I can't extract my revenge upon the Saxons without learning to play their dangerous game first. Lancelot's face hardens as he registers my determination.

"This is your quest, not mine," he spits. "Go if you like. I will not be a part of your foolishness." With that rejection still ringing in the air, Lancelot storms away. I watch him until he drops out of sight, making the perilous journey back down the cliff, back to my prison.

Revenge is no easy task, but it's all I am now. He will teach me. I will have my blood, his protests be damned. I follow Lancelot's footprints, returning reluctantly to the camp. My retreat isn't one of defeat, because I am not giving up. No law, man, nor God will deter me from my goal.

* * *

~Lancelot~

I stoke the embers of our dying fire viciously. Rogue sparks burn the bare skin of my wrists and the back of my hands. They sting like Seraphina's words. Every time she parts those blossoming lips thorns spring forth rather than roses. They burrow in my mind, spreading with ferocious speed until my thoughts are cluttered with the weeds of her words. She's everything a woman shouldn't be; rash, brazen, and spiteful. Absently, I touch my cheek. The force of her slap was shocking, the resulting pain even more so. My fingers move with a mind of their own to the miniscule scar hidden beneath my collar from where she bit me that first night. Bit me! One of Arthur's legendary knights.

I've come across a handful of Roman women, all of them sickeningly submissive. They tread on cautious feet behind their lords with bowed heads and vacant expressions. They speak in gentle tones like women are meant to. But this wild cat, with her venomous presence, is yet to learn her place in the world. She dares to overstep her boundaries. The twig in my hand snaps suddenly, giving way to the pressure of my infuriated grip.

I nearly pity Rome for the gift we're soon to deliver, but I'll be glad to be done with this shrew. It took every ounce of self control not to beat some servility into her. I know only too well it would have fueled her ridiculous escape attempt further. She would have run headlong into the broad sword of a Saxon warrior and Arthur would never have forgiven me for losing his charge. His fondness for the girl grows with each passing day. I don't understand his obsession. If what she tells us is true, she means nothing to his precious Rome and she means even less to me.

"About time she made a run for it." Dagonet's resonant voice breaks the silence of early morn. I follow his line of sight to the cliff where Seraphina is still struggling to clamber down to solid ground. I can't deny that she's tough and far too determined.

"Little imp's been itching to get away for days now." Dagonet's forehead wrinkles in mild confusion. "But I think she's going the wrong way." He turns to me for an explanation. I know my fellow knight well enough to understand the question in his level gaze. Dag keeps his silence and when he does speak he can't make a straightforward remark to save his life. His past is more a mystery than the other men's, but he isn't distant like Tristan. Dagonet is simply reserved. I respect him for it, even if I'd like to throttle him for being so evasive at times.

"She isn't running. Not now anyways."

"It was pointless to let her poison me then." Dagonet's passive words send me reeling.

"Poison?" I stammer like a fool. He removes something from inside of his cloak and opens his palm for me to see a few crushed, white blossoms. I raise an eyebrow quizzically. Herbs have never been my strongest area of expertise.

"Valerian," Dagonet states. "It's a powerful sleep agent." I recall the strange bitter taste in the stew last night and gaze at the knights still slumbering around us. A fresh wave of anger surges within me, mingled with just the slightest hint of amusement. The witch poisoned us.

"Clever," I admit begrudgingly. "You knew?"

"She wasn't light with the dosage. I could taste it the very first sip."

"Yet you said nothing?" I can't tame the accusation in my voice. Dagonet is unaffected. He continues to watch Seraphina struggle with the last leg of her journey.

"Everyone deserves a chance at freedom."

"Freedom?" I scoff. "Our Princessa is drawn to self destruction. You know Arthur's orders. We are to keep her here, under lock and key."

"And that slender handprint upon your cheek, Lancelot?" Dag retorts quickly, but with none of my antagonism. "May I guess who it belongs to?" I curse myself for falling into a trap of my own hypocrisy.

"I never planned on letting her go," I argue truthfully. Oh, I struggled with myself up there. I followed her in silence, longing for her to escape. It would have made everything so much easier if she was to slip away in the night, but Arthur's word is my law. I argue with my commander more than is acceptable, but I would never blatantly commit treason.

I knew I could play upon her juvenile feelings. She may be fierce, but she's naïve as well, and confused. It only took a bit of prodding, a few careful words to open her eyes to reason. She tumbled into the trap gracelessly, yet somehow she managed to capture me as well inside of her tricky web.

I thought the threat of death would cause her desire for revenge to falter, but she surprised me by turning the tables. This isn't a fleeting emotion for Seraphina. Her hate is stronger than I originally believed and that iron willed determination of hers worries me. She'll do whatever it takes to complete her mission. Unwittingly, I've become the next pawn in her devious plan, but I will not ensnare myself in this mess. I will not teach her to fight, to kill, just so she can die and I can have more bloodshed on my already stained conscious. Even if I wanted to help her, Arthur would forbid it.

Seraphina collapses at the base of the cliff in a huddled mess. She doesn't move for the longest time. Dagonet and I watch silently as she struggles to her feet at last. Neither of us moves to lend her aide. She braces herself against the imposing rock wall and meets our eyes, her expression strangely empty. I would have expected wrath, stubbornness, even defeat. Seraphina nods once in recognition, still immobile, before glancing away into the foggy distance.

"You should tend to her hands." I clear my throat of the sudden tenderness in my voice and continue speaking in a brittle tone. "She'll never heal if she continues pulling stunts such as these and we'll be left to wither away in this barren place." Dagonet shrugs his broad shoulders before lumbering over to Seraphina. She holds out her hands without a word and continues to stare at some unseen mystery.

Her face is outlined by the rosy light of dawn, softening the tense line of her jaw. I let myself admire the image for just a moment. She could be pretty, but a darkness mars her elegant beauty. It's a scar deeper than those across her palms and one that I'm reluctant to prod.

I bend over to reach for a chunk of bread peaking out of Gawain's pack. As I do so, Seraphina's wooden cross slips free from beneath my tunic. It swings before my eyes mockingly. I'd nearly forgotten it was in my possession. I move to tear the cursed thing from my neck. My fingers brush against the wood, worn smooth by tender caresses. It sends a tingle through my body, not entirely an unpleasant one. I feel as though the cross is pulling my head down into a submissive bow. It takes some effort to fight against the symbol's weight.

She wouldn't take it back. I don't quite know why I asked her to. This silly cross was the only thing blocking her path to blood revenge. I understand the gravity of her actions. In discarding this, she's forfeited the salvation Arthur constantly rambles on about. She'll want it back someday, when this is over.

There will come a time when Seraphina will grovel for the return of her little trinket, a day when she'll regret this. I look forward to being the one to hold it out of her grasp. To be the one to deny her. It's one pleasure I have in this twisted situation, no matter how small.

As the other Knight's begin to stir, I tuck the crucifix under my tunic once more. It rests over my heart.

* * *

**A/N:** I wasn't planning on updating twice in one day, but since I won't be able to for the remainder of the weekend, I thought what the hell. I've got quite a few chapters on backlog, just waiting to be edited. I realize that in the movie all of the knights are portrayed as a less than innocent, but I've decided to make Galahad the pure knight of the gang! After all, in the Grail legend he is known as "Galahad the pure". Plus, it's kind of fun to make him the butt of the other men's jokes.

**To Anime Princess**: Well, at least Lancelot's knocked a little sense into her. Even if it's going to bite him in the arse later on. And I had to make Lancey-boy rude! He's such a dark character, there couldn't be any butterflies and rainbows between them yet.


	5. Chapter 5

**DISCLAIMER:** I've watched King Arthur three times this weekend. Yet still own nothing within the movie.

* * *

_"But seduction isn't making someone do what they don't want to do. Seduction is enticing someone into doing what they secretly want to do already."_

_-Waiter Rant_

**FIVE**

~Seraphina~

_Tell me a story about the knights. Tell me a story…Helena's opalescent eyes sparkle cruelly in the shadows. Her skeletal hands reach out from the depths of a twisted tree trunk. Her thin, high pitched voice rings clear in my ears, but her lips are stitched together. I'm frightened. My feet are buried in the fast falling snow, imprisoning me here._

"_Let me go," I whimper as her shackle-like fingers wrap around my neck. _

'_Tell me a story,' she hisses inside of my head. 'About cowards who run.' A baby cries shrilly nearby, a scream for help and comfort. Helena's nails dig into the soft flesh of my neck, burrowing until blood flows. She slithers from her hiding place, seemingly boneless and inhuman. She sniffs the air and grins, the stitches in her lips stretching as she does. I want to be anywhere else in the world._

'_Running again,' she snarls. Tears stream down my cheeks. Helena brushes them away and I see ash coating her fingertips rather than water. My eyes are burning. Everything becomes a smoky haze. Helena nuzzles against my shoulder. Her childish giggle, once so full of innocence and joy, echoes with malice. She presses her sown lips to mine. I can feel her stitches unwinding. They snake down my throat, choking me, they slither into my body. Helena pulls away to watch me struggle for air. Blood pores from her newly opened mouth, but she's smiling._

"_Kill them, love. I'll forgive you then." She's fading, drawn back into the tree's sanctuary. Her laughter mingles with the baby's cry, Mama's voice singing dreamily, Papa's boots pounding on the hallway floor, Alex's tapping fingers on the windowpane. They all whisper the same thing._

_Kill. Kill. Kill. It makes my blood sing. Everything erupts in a fiery tide as my eyes char. I can't breathe. I don't even know if I want to._

"Wake up, lass." A rough kick to my side sends a rush of agony through my sore ribs that drags me from my nightmare instantly. I sit up, gasping for air, with one hand pressed to the hollow of my collar bone where my pulse thuds rapidly. For a moment, my vision is blurred. Gradually the campsite materializes before me; the fire pit, heavy footprints in the snow, noonday sun glinting off the surface of the frozen river, and Gawain towering over me with inscrutable eyes. I turn away from his gaze and hurriedly wipe away the silly tears still clinging to my lashes.

"Morning," I mumble groggily, unable to articulate anything more appropriate to say. Gawain snorts derisively and raises a hand to shield his eye from the bright sunlight.

"Not quite anymore. Are all Roman women so lazy?"

"Busy night," I snap, pulling my cloak around my shoulders and staring across the flashy river. It winks back. Every inch of me aches. I can't even remember what it was like to not feel pain, physically or emotionally. Dagonet wasn't pleased with my late night rendezvous. To be fair, it wasn't exceptionally bright. My wounds were just healing and I've back tracked the process by a few days.

I'm not the only one moving at a slower pace today. Gawain's steps are strangely measured. His shoulders slump with fatigue. He yawns so widely I fear his jaw will snap. A tingling of satisfaction tickles my insides and I try to hide my smile from him. Gawain already loathes me. Regardless of Arthur, I'm sure he'd throttle me if he were to learn I was the cause for his exceptional exhaustion.

A brittle wind sweeps over us, chilling me to the bone. Gawain's tarnished gold braids swirl as he frowns up at the darkening sky. I press my dry lips together. I'm parched, but the only water is trapped beneath a frozen river. Improvising, I scoop up a handful of slushy snow. Gritty dirt sticks to my tongue, but as the snow melts, cool water quenches my thirst. Gawain watches in amusement.

"You'll be a jewel in the Roman court with manners such as those." I try my hardest to look fierce with dirty snow dripping down my chin.

"Stop that!" I clamber to my feet clumsily, my calves screaming in protest. Gawain bends at the waist in a mock bow, his lips curved in a sarcastic snarl.

"Apologies, my lady. I meant no offense." His tone, however, is highly offensive.

"I am no lady!" I know I shouldn't let my anger get the best of me. It's a nasty habit, but these men are picking my sanity, or what's left of it, apart. Gawain looms over me. I cringe as he blatantly scans my figure, hidden beneath folds of fabric.

"Not a lady?" His breath is hot on my face. I turn away in disgust at our inappropriate proximity.

"I have no title." Gawain grabs my hand roughly, making sure to apply pressure to my freshly reopened wounds. He kisses the back of my bandaged hand.

"Whatever you say, Princessa." Beyond rationality, I draw back my foot and slam it into his armored shin.

"Bloody Hell," I curse. It feels as though my toes have all been crushed. I grab my foot, hopping around foolishly on one leg until my balance falters. Gawain's entire body shakes with laughter. He crouches down beside me, sprawled in the snow, my face crimson from rage and embarrassment.

"Graceful, my lady. Next time I suggest you aim for the groin."

"Don't tempt me," I grumble mutinously, returning to my feet and kicking snow into his face in the process. Gawain sputters angrily, all traces of laughter gone. We stance off against one another; glaring, heat radiating from our skin even though the temperature continues to drop. Gawain's the first to break away, but not out of defeat, simply distaste.

"Arthur wants me take you riding. Something about getting used to the saddle again, testing your injuries, and such." By the way he lets the words drop morbidly, you'd think he'd been sentenced to death. I trail after him as he strides to the horses. I notice that Lancelot's, Arthur's, and Tristan's are missing from the bunch. For the first time I'm conscious of the fact that the other knights are absent as well.

"Where-"

"Don't know," Gawain answers my unasked question. He focuses on straightening the saddle of one of the dappled mares. "Galahad's given permission for you to borrow his horse." The ornery knight seems less than thrilled by his friend's generosity. I ignore him as I peer into the mare's gentle eyes. She's oddly honey colored with white markings along her coat and a splash on her narrow skull.

"What's her name?" I ask curiously.

"We don't name our steeds. They're warriors, not pets." Gawain's voice drips with disdain. I'm too preoccupied by the beautiful mare's presence to care at the moment.

"Everything deserves a name," I state adamantly. Name's give us power. They give us the gift of individuality. "I shall call her Vulcan."

"Vulcan," Gawain repeats, tasting the name like he would something unpleasant.

"The Roman goddess of beauty and love." He snorts unattractively and raises a quizzical eyebrow that is lost beneath the furrows of tangled hair.

"Thought you Romans were loyal to one God."

"We are." My hand flutters to my chest, searching for the reassuring presence of my crucifix, before I remember it's no longer mine. "She was one of the ancient, pagan gods." I always liked the stories Papa told us about ancient Rome and the dirty deeds of the all powerful gods. Mama never approved, but he whispered the tales to us in secret. I let my hand fall to my side as the intense loneliness rears its ugly head. Gawain takes no notice. He's already mounting his own horse, a chestnut gelding.

"Goddess of love and beauty," he mumbles under his breath. "For a war horse? Women." He looks down at me impatiently and continues speaking in a louder voice. "Well, are you going to dawdle there all day?" Vulcan paws the ground as though to add her agreement. I've never been afraid to ride before and even now I wouldn't call it so much fear as nerves. I don't know how much my body can handle and I refuse to look weak in front of this rude knight.

Grimacing, I place my foot in Vulcan's stirrup. My fingers slip on her sleek coat, but I manage to lift myself into the saddle without much trouble. I take her reigns firmly in my hand, relishing in the heady sensation of being in control of the beautiful creature beneath me. It's nice to be in the saddle once more without a pesky knight breathing down my neck. I leave my nightmares on the ground as I follow Gawain into the forest at a steady trot.

Each step causes a dull throb to bounce around my rib cage. I drown the pain with the intoxication of icy air slapping my cheeks, making my eyes water. Gawain and I move through the trees and I'm reminded of happier times; precious days when thoughts such as revenge and guilt never crossed my mind, moments in which I didn't have to concoct conniving plans, such as poisoning men and trying to convince a battle trained knight to teach me how to fight.

As I pull ahead of Gawain, his grim expression reminds me of where I am and who I've become. Those days are gone. Although the fact weighs bitterly in my heart, I can't deny the truth. Helena's nightmarish face flickers in the shadows as a threatening cloud covers the sun. Heavy raindrops beat against my skin. In seconds I'm drenched through and through. I enjoy the sudden deluge. It washes away the sweet memories, cleaning me of the past still caked upon my body like stubborn mud. The pattering drops upon the canopy of trees remind me of my mission.

_Kill them and I'll forgive you._

"Have you gone deaf?" Vulcan startles when Gawain rides in front of her, blocking our path. His tarnished hair is dark and damp, his face slick with rain, and his eyes narrowed.

"We're going back. I can't keep a good look out in this weather," he shouts over the storm. I debate on whether or not to ignore his command and continue my ride. As though reading my mind, Gawain reaches forward and takes Vulcan's reigns. He pulls her around with him, turning us back in the direction of the campsite. When he lets go, I follow him reluctantly. For a short time I was truly free from this constant nagging ache in my stomach. As we trot towards my prison once more I can feel the ache tightening into a ball of weariness.

Galahad and Lancelot are there when we return. Adrenaline still pumps through my veins and I know I should make use of it before it drains away. Galahad offers his hand to help me, but I push it aside and slide down Vulcan's wet side in a practiced manner. My ribs are still sore, my hands burn, but it isn't too much to bear. Gawain dismounts beside me, shooting a dark look at the young knight who's giving me his familiar, eager, light hearted stare.

"How'd it go?" Galahad asks, his voice barely loud enough to penetrate the raging storm. I can't help but smile at his overly friendly manner and bright eyes.

"Thank-you for loaning me your horse. I wish we'd had more time to ride." Galahad grins enthusiastically, melting some of the ice around my heart. It's difficult not to fall under his spell.

"She's yours whenever you need." I nod a silent signal of gratitude before stepping around him, my eyes locking on the man I truly wish to speak to. Lancelot is purposefully avoiding my gaze. He's standing on the river's bank. A strike of lightening illuminates his intimidating figure and my resolve wavers for a second. I remind myself that he's just a man, one whom I happen to need.

Need? It's so strange an emotion. I straighten my shoulders, pull the hood of my cloak up, and close the distance between us swiftly. Gawain and Galahad's curious eyes follow me. I halt at Lancelot's side, so close that my arm brushes against the cool metal of his armor. He doesn't acknowledge my arrival and I don't waste time with trivial small talk or opening sentiments. Last night's events press against both of us.

"Teach me," I order, forcing all of my adrenaline into the words to lend them power. There's no time to beat around the bush or give him time to think. The sooner I learn, the sooner this will end.

"No," Lancelot asserts dully.

"Teach me," I repeat with even more force.

"No." He turns to leave. I grab his arm and feel his muscles clench in my grasp.

"You must!" My outraged cry is drowned in a clash of thunder. Somehow, Lancelot still hears. He finally faces me. His pitch black curls are glued to his forehead and shadows decorate his coal eyes. I'm fascinated by the crystalline droplets of rain that bead along his stern lips, slipping between the crack into the cavern of his mouth where he's penning his angry words with a self control I'll never master. His fierce stare makes me quail, but not back down.

"Must I, Princessa? I am not Roman and you are not my master. Give up this foolish notion. You're shaming yourself." He nods in the direction of my hand still cupped around his forearm. I don't let go.

"I have no pride left to salvage. Shall I beg?" I drop to my knees, disregarding the muddy slush that I sink into or Gawain and Galahad still within viewing distance. It matters not what they think of me. Lancelot will teach me to fight. He peers down at me through the curtain of rain with features curled in absolute disgust.

"Get up," he barks.

"Teach me." Lancelot reaches down and lifts me to my feet effortlessly. His fingers dig into my shoulders painfully. I keep my face a mask of measured calm, jutting my chin forward stubbornly. He seems to be struggling with himself. The thick, blue vein in his neck protrudes as his jaw tightens. I'm playing with fire, but I've been burning since the Saxons destroyed everything. The flames don't bother me nearly as much as they used to.

After what seems like eternity, Lancelot sighs. His grip relaxes and the sparks of rage in his eyes simmer. I tense as he leans forward. His wet lips brush my ear just slightly.

"No," he murmurs. I'm too stunned to react as he slips away, dizzy from the heat of his rejection on my cheek.

"I won't give up!" I cry hopelessly to his retreating back. Maybe it's the storm toying with my mind, but for an instant I think I hear him laughing. Lancelot returns to Galahad and Gawain. I see him shrug off their queries silently. Thunder rumbles over the land, lightening stabs the sky. I hold my palms to the murderous clouds, throw back my head, and laugh until my healing ribs can take no more. It's a manic laugh that fades into noiseless, tearless sobs.

A heavy hand rests on my shoulder. I don't pull away as Galahad wraps his arm around me awkwardly, unsure of himself and me. He doesn't ask. He doesn't judge. I take the strength he gives off with every breath. This isn't over. I'll pester Lancelot to death and I won't feel an ounce of guilt for killing him.

A new plan begins to emerge in my head as the fuzzy affects of Lancelot's closeness evaporate. He's mastered the art of making women swoon; breaking them with sultry grins and subtle touches. Perhaps it's time his nasty tricks were turned against him.

* * *

~Lancelot~

She's laughing. I can't help but stare as her head tilts back, an unchecked smile breaking across her delicate lips, and a light in her foggy eyes magnified by the firelight. She catches me watching and smirks alluringly, pushing her heavy hair over her shoulder, before turning her attention back to Bors. It makes no sense. Where's the animosity, the blood lust? Seraphina appears to be just another girl, beautiful and charming. If it weren't for the way her hands are balled tightly in her lap, I'd almost believe the pretense. She's up to something. I just can't decipher what exactly this charade is supposed to win her. I berate myself silently for letting the silly girl under my skin. Another peal of feminine laughter hits me hard.

"Lancelot!" Bors bellows drunkenly. His broad face is flushed from the drink. "Tell us about that broad from Cornwall."

"You mean the tavern whore?" Gawain chuckles. "What was her name?"

"Corinna," I grunt reluctantly. "But it's hardly a tale for sensitive ears." I jerk my head in Seraphina's direction.

"My ears have heard enough, Sir. Tell me about this Corinna." The girl's voice is calm and slightly teasing.

"Ah, that arm. The prettiest arm I've ever seen," Bors sighs. Tristan snorts into his flask, something uncharacteristic of the generally reserved knight. His eyes meet mine across the fire for an instant.

"Aye, she was a fine lass," Gawain adds reminiscently. "And her pretty blue eyes were focused on Lancelot from the moment we rode through the village gates."

"Are you going to tell this story or is he?" Dagonet intervenes, tactfully returning their attention to me. I search desperately for a way out of sharing a story I've rather tried to forget, but their impatient eyes leave me no room for escape. Even Tristan seems curious and Seraphina's encouraging grin eggs me on.

"Fine!" I take a large sip of stale ale before beginning the tale. A log collapses in the fire, making sparks twirl around us. "We were passing through Cornwall after discouraging a band of Woads from overstepping their territorial boundaries into Rome's hold. It'd been weeks sense we'd come across anything other than the bastard heathens."

"And the blood begins to boil after so many nights alone," Bors interrupts, nudging Seraphina and nearly tipping her over with his bulk. "Man cannot live on imagination alone."

"Besides Galahad that is!" The young knight is quick to punch Gawain roughly in the shoulder. I notice that he's not the only one blushing. Seraphina quickly tries to conceal the flush in her cheeks.

"Leave the lad be," Tristan's gruff voice commands. "I'm still interested in this woman and her apparently pretty arm."

"Ah, that is the funny part." I'm surprised by Arthur's injection into the conversation. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, a relaxed grin gracing his weary face.

"Corinna was a bright girl. She worked in the village tavern and garnered more attention than the others. Her hair was as fine as gold silk, a comely figure, and that arm." A small sigh escapes my mouth as I remember the girl from so long ago.

"What's so impressive about an arm?" Seraphina blurts, unable to hold her tongue. For the first time tonight I hear honest curiosity in her voice as opposed to coquettish playfulness.

"Well, it was the talk of the village," Galahad supplies.

"Aye, but even more so the things she could do with it," Dagonet chuckles.

"Tell us about those things Lancelot," Bors booms.

"I never learned the level of her skill," I say, somewhat regretfully.

"Would she not have you?" Seraphina jabs, poking my pride skillfully. I stun her with my most devilish grin.

"Oh, she would have had me. I was the one who spurned her."

"But if she was so beautiful-"

"Lancelot took Corinna to his bed alright, but the moment she slipped off her shawl-"

"I realized that her beautiful arm was missing its match," I finish Gawain's sentence. "It was quite the disappointment, but I couldn't bring myself to take a one-armed woman." A rowdy chorus of laughter echoes through the peaceful darkness. Seraphina is the only one who doesn't seem amused. She puckers her lips distastefully.

"How could you not have noticed something like a missing arm?" she asks skeptically.

"She was a genius at disguising her disfigurement," Arthur chuckles, shaking his head in a resigned fashion.

"What's the matter, Princessa?" Gawain sneers. The girl returns his rudeness icily.

"It's a bit cruel to poke fun at the poor woman."

"She wasn't at a lack for business," I snort. Seraphina pierces me with a righteous glare.

"Do you even know how she came to be disfigured?"

"We never got around to story time." I shrug off her disgusted expression. If she wants to play with the grown ups, she'll have to learn to control her emotions better.

"Oh, don't be sore lass!" Bors cries, draping a heavy arm around her slender shoulders. "We all have the utmost respect for women."

"Vanora might disagree," Galahad chortles, earning a smack to the back of the head.

"What do you know?" Bors grunts angrily, his meaty fists clenching. "You don't even have the guts to prick the cheapest whores with your-"

"Bors," Arthur cuts in sharply, beating the big, drunken knight into silence with stern eyes. I catch a glimpse of Seraphina squirming uncomfortably. Bors releases her from his hold and takes another swig from his flask. We drift into a rocky silence, only broken by Tristan's low whistle as he calls for his hawk. Arthur tosses the girl an oddly affectionate glance. My heart sinks when I see a familiar shadow of worry cross his face. That soft-hearted expression is always a bad omen and sure enough my premonition is justified.

"Lancelot, may I have a word?" Common sense urges me to refuse Arthur's carefully disguised order. I have a nasty feeling that this "word" isn't going to improve my already wretched day. However, I find myself standing in defeat. He's my commander. I can't disobey him.

"Dagonet, make sure your fellow knight holds his vulgar tongue." Dag nods as Bors grunts incomprehensibly. I follow Arthur out of sight and hearing distance from the others, the dread steadily rising in my belly. Arthur rests against a crooked tree and peers off into the distance. I decide not to rush him.

"One armed prostitutes," he sighs, turning his emerald eyes on me. "What shall I do with you men?"

"A good lashing perhaps?" Arthur grins at my sarcasm.

"It'd be well deserved for your impertinence."

"Arthur-" He cuts me off with a wave of his hand, sobering instantly. I can hear Seraphina's musical laughter once more.

"It's a wonder to see her smiling, isn't it?" Arthur's voice is saturated in fondness.

"I wouldn't call it a wonder," I mutter.

"You distrust even her happiness?"

"It's too sudden. She's been brooding ever since we found her."

"But she returned last night." Arthur seems amused by my shocked expression. "Of course I knew, Lancelot. I saw her sneaking away, with you at her heels, just before the most unnatural sleep overpowered me." By the twinkle in his eyes, I'm sure Dagonet's not the only one with a knowledge of Seraphina's valerian trick. Poor girl is hopeless at being sneaky.

"Why do you think she returned?" Arthur's question makes me shift uncomfortably. Of course I know why she came back. After all, I was the one to encourage her, but I'm not willing to confess last night's events to Arthur for some reason. I've never lied to him, not in fifteen years. It's painful to do so now.

"I wouldn't know. Perhaps she isn't as brave as you think."

"Perhaps." He isn't fooled, but he doesn't pry. It wouldn't surprise me if the man were aware of everything that happens here, every word we speak, and every meaningful glance.

"I want you to protect her." Arthur drops his purpose for this conversation without softening the blow. I reel back, snarling.

"What?"

"Keep a close watch on the girl, Lancelot. Keep her safe not just from our enemies, but from the other men as well." I know exactly what he's asking me to do. Bors's behavior tonight is a prime example of what Arthur is worried of. After all, Bors wasn't lying when he said that this life could be lonely.

"We have needs, Arthur, but none of us would dare touch that Roman witch." His insinuation irks me. Arthur places a placating hand on my arm and I resist the urge to pull away.

"Please don't take offense, my friend. I know none of you would willing hurt her but she's lived a sheltered life. I won't have her ruined by the fireside banter of a handful of shameless knights."

"Why me?"

"I trust you," he states solidly.

"And you don't the others?"

"My life is in their hands, Lancelot. I respect my men, but you are my second in command. You are the one I feel most comfortable with taking her as your charge."

"Arthur, you cannot ask me this!" The thought of becoming Seraphina's guardian not only nauseates me, it's frightening. I must keep away from her. I can't bear reliving moments such as we had today by the river. Her persistent demands that I train her will only drive me to insanity.

"I am not asking," Arthur declares.

"You are ordering." He nods his confirmation.

"It's only until we return to the wall. She will be out of your hands soon enough and you will be free. Lancelot, this is the last I will expect from you." I close my eyes and try to let his alluring promises win me over. Seraphina's determined expression is all I see. I'd rather face a battalion of Saxons alone and weaponless.

"Will you protect her? For me, your friend, not Rome."

"What choice do I have?" I raise my hands in defeat. "The Princessa will be kept safe. You have my word." Arthur smiles thankfully, visibly relaxing. He squeezes my shoulder in a silent mark of gratitude.

"Are you coming back to the fire?"

"In a bit." Arthur nods his understanding before returning to others jovial circle. I'm in no mood to join my lighthearted brothers anymore. Damned Arthur's persuasion! His gentle hearted intentions! How am I to protect someone I despise? I'm tired of fighting battles that are not mine, whether they be Rome's, Arthur's, or his God's. Seraphina's cross sticks to my skin. I never would have believed that one little girl could prove to destroy me where all else have failed these long years. I can't allow it.

"Bloody Roman filth," I curse. A twig snaps somewhere behind me and I spin quickly. Seraphina steps into the thin moonlight peering through the trees. 'Of all the people,' I think bitterly to myself.

"Talking to yourself, Sire?" Her eyebrow arches quizzically. There's an odd note to her voice that I can't quite place. It stirs something within me.

"You should be with the others. Wandering about in the dark is dangerous."

"But I am not alone and I have a proposition for you, Sir." Seraphina takes a hesitant step towards me. I wait for her to continue, struggling to understand the glint in her eyes.

"Get on with it, girl," I snap impatiently. She seems to falter for a moment at my brusque tone, but recovers speedily. Seraphina unclasps the wooden toggle at the throat of her cloak. It billows to the ground like a living creature. I watch her chest rise as she sucks in a deep breath and in that instant I understand her "proposition".

She keeps her eyes level and blank, her lips quirked confidently, but I see her hands tremble as she unlaces the throat of her borrowed tunic. A thin strip of milky skin contrasts deliciously against the dark fabric. Her chestnut hair fans over her shoulder, decorated with tiny flakes of snow. I'm torn between amusement, irritation, and lust. Her hands flutter to the hem of the tunic. I grab her arm before she can undress herself further. I press her roughly against a twisted tree. My fingers dig deep into the soft flesh of her wrist and she winces in pain, a tremor of panic rising in her wide, now childish eyes.

"You'd give yourself to me?" I murmur dangerously.

"If you teach me to fight." Seraphina's voice is adamant. I shatter her false sense of poise by slipping one hand under her shirt. The coldness of my skin assaults her warm stomach. Her muscles tense as my fingers climb higher, but she doesn't struggle.

"And you trust me to keep my side of the deal?" I sneer. Her trust in me is laughable. "I can take you now, bargain or no bargain." I press harder against her, trying not to enjoy the sensation of her pliable form beneath me or her nervous breath caressing my neck. I expect her to struggle now, admit her mistake, and beg to be released. I should have known she'd never let things be that simple. Her determination is unwavering. Seraphina pulls herself together.

"What choice do I have?" she whispers, more so to herself than me. I can still taste those very words in my own mouth, having spoken them to Arthur just minutes ago. Seraphina tips her eyes upwards, so much desperation I'm drowning in the familiarity of the emotion. A fresh deluge of rage hits me hard at her open display of feeling and in a rage I wrap my free hand around the nape of her neck, pulling her head back by the roots of her tangled hair. She gasps in surprise as I cover her mouth ferociously with mine, plunging my tongue into the warm cavern where all of her bitter words are born. There's nothing but panic and resignation there now. She cries out when I bite her bottom lip hard enough to draw tangy blood.

Seraphina is clueless as to what to do. She doesn't kiss back; instead she hardens defensively against me. I'm warring between the urge to kill her and make love to her. I'm taking all of my pent up frustration out on this silly girl who's so willing given herself over to me. Did she think I had a heart or a soul that would save her? The girl gasps as my calloused hand cups her breast. The sound pushes me further. I feed off of her fear. Her breathing is labored. I tear my lips away to watch her. Seraphina turns to hide her face.

"Don't fight me," I growl into her ear. She shudders as I nip the sensitive skin of her neck. "This is your proposition after all." Seraphina ceases her weak attempts at escaping.

"Promise you'll train me," she whispers. I see the glassiness of her smoky eyes, tears begging to spill over, but she holds them in check bravely. My promise to Arthur comes rushing back at full force. Not a handful of minutes after swearing to protect her from situations exactly such as these and I'm already failing. I remove my hand from her chest.

"No more promises tonight." I pull away. She immediately crumbles to the ground, burying her face in her trembling hands as I step back. At first I think she's sobbing. It isn't until she looks up at me that I realize she's laughing again, but it isn't the joyous sound from before. It's cold and unruly. Her tunic is still slipping over one shoulder and her lips are swollen. My fingertips remember all too clearly the sweet sensation of touching her tender skin.

"What else can I do?" she cackles dementedly. I fear she's finally snapped and I'm not sure what to do. For the first time in a long time I'm ashamed of myself.

"Give up," I say dryly. Seraphina sobers instantly. She's shivering from the cold or something worse.

"Not until every last one of them is dead." Her declaration feels like another promise, a garish one.

"It won't bring your family back."

"Of course it won't! I'm not daft," she hisses vehemently.

"Then why this crusade?" Seraphina bows her head and closes her stormy eyes. A single tear escapes and she wipes it away angrily. Her lips part, forming an answer that I don't get the chance to hear. Something else whistles in my ear. An arrow thuds deeply into the tree trunk, only a hare above Seraphina's arched head. Instinct pushes aside everything else; anger, curiosity, and confusion.

I grab Seraphina before she can register what's happened. A volley of arrows soar around us, but finding their marks in the thick forest is difficult. There are too many obstacles.

"What are you doing?" Seraphina screams as I pull her into my arms, lifting her feet from the ground, and holding her to my chest.

"Protecting you." As I race back to camp, acting as a human shield for the stunned girl, I catch a glimpse of one of the arrows buried into the ground. The elegant markings on the shaft are sickeningly familiar. First Saxons and now Woads. This place must be the Hell Arthur speaks of.

* * *

**devilpup12: **HA! I'd be mad if I were her too.

**Anime Princess: **To answer your question, this is the last year of their servitude. This story is mucho AU! The knights rescued Guinevere and Lucan like in the movie, but none of the other stuff with the Saxons really happened...There will be more explanation about that later though.

**rebeccaS: **Oh buddy boy, the love-hate between Sera and Lancelot only gets worse. And don't worry, this is a Lancelot/OC story. I hope you like this chapter ;D

**A/N:** Major thanks to anyone who has read so far and to the lovely reviewers. This story has a mind of its own! Oh yeah, and sorry for the sorta cliffhanger here. I'll post more super soon.


	6. Chapter 6

**DISCLAIMER: **Aw poo. I still don't own Arthur and his knights.

**A/N:** Dun, dun, dun...the plot thickens...sort of. This chapter is actually all in Sera's POV. I didn't plan it that way, it just happened :D Read&Enjoy&Review if it suits you.

* * *

"_To die for an idea; it is unquestionably noble._

_But how much nobler it would be if men died for ideas that were true!"_

_-H.L. Mencken_

**SIX**

~Seraphina~

Tristan reaches us first, his bow at the ready. He fires at our invisible attackers as Lancelot moves swiftly to the shelter of the knights. He bends his head as arrows buzz past us, grim single-mindedness writhing in his dark eyes; survival. For a stretch of land, Tristan's shots are the only thing protecting us from the ghost enemies. We're in no man's land and I find myself wondering how Lancelot's gone from being my antagonizer to my savoir.

A scream catches in my throat when Lancelot's face twists in pain and he stumbles, an arrow ricocheting off his armor. His weight crushes the breath from my lungs and for a moment I forget the fact that we're in mortal danger. I know I should be afraid. I know I should feel something other than astonishment. Lancelot seems stunned. He's struggling to find his breath. Not quite knowing why, I cup his stubbly cheek in my palm.

"Are you afraid?" I whisper, quoting Lancelot's question from the day of the Saxon ambush. I'm only vaguely aware of the knights rushing to their fallen comrade.

"I'm sure as hell not excited," he grunts. The wild desire to laugh rises within me, but there's no time. Without warning, Lancelot is being pulled away from me. I watch as a fierce man, not particularly bulky, but ferocious none the least, tosses Lancelot to the ground a few feet away from me. The man's face is decorated by strange, blue designs. He's nearly nude, every inch of uncovered skin coated in paint. I watch, oddly indifferent, as Lancelot drags the man down with him. They tumble in the snow, a flailing of arms and legs. I see them all taking shape, as though they're made from the shadows. Lancelot's shouting through gritted teeth as he continues to fight with one of the wraith-like men.

"Run girl!" But I'm too shocked to heed his command. Instead I sit in the center of the fight, staring in amazement as the knight's spar against the light footed enemy. Alex told me many a tale of these people. My mother was once one of them, yet this is the first time I've ever laid eyes on the Woads. I'm fascinated by their grace and savageness. They're more like animals than men, inhuman in their agility. They seem to dance around the knights lithely. Even awed by their ability, I'm terrified in the same instant. These beings are like nothing I've ever witnessed. Saxons we've always dealt with, but the Woads never made an appearance.

I scramble backwards as one of them crouch before me, pressing a dagger to my breast bone. This warrior is older than any of the knights, his dark hair muted with silver, and heavy lines etched across his gnarled face. He takes me in with clear eyes, reading my very soul. I feel helpless, under a spell. He whispers words in a language that strikes a bell in my memory. It's the same one Mama used when she sang, husky and ripe with longing.

"Are you going to kill me?" I don't know what makes me ask such a ridiculous question. "Because I mean you no harm." His expression never changes. I quail under the feeling of weakness. I haven't felt so feeble since I fled with Helena from the invading Saxons.

"I…I am not your enemy," I sputter. Unexpectedly, the man lifts me over his shoulder. The world spins as the blood rushes to my head and I'm watching everything upside down. I struggle not to vomit as the Woad hurries away from the heart of the fight. Bors thunders behind us, taking in my situation swiftly. He isn't nearly fast enough to keep pace with the fleet footed Woad. Bors extends his hand and I stretch my arm as far as possible. His thick fingers wind through mine. The tendons in his neck strain as he gives a mighty tug and I find myself flying through the air. My foot collides with the surprised Woad's head as he tumbles after me. I ram into Bors's solid frame, thankful to be under the protection of his massive arm around my waist as he prepares to face the bloody Woad who nearly kidnapped me. Before either man can strike, the Woad falls with one of Tristan's arrows protruding from the dead center of his spine. A small trickle of remorse floods through my veins, but it doesn't have a chance to settle before I'm being jerked around again.

"Throw her here," Lancelot yells, skidding to a halt before us on his black stallion. Before I can protest, Bors lifts me into the saddle and we're galloping into the forest. Tree branches scratch at my face. The sound of metal on metal begins to fade as we move further from the commotion.

"Turn back!" I scream over the wind assaulting us. Lancelot ignores my demands and continues to barrel forward. I grab a fistful of his stallion's reigns and pull them sharply to the left. Lancelot curses furiously, striving to regain control. He's much stronger than me, but that doesn't matter now. I can't run away again.

Lancelot grabs my wrist and twists it sharply. He pushes me out of the saddle so that I land in a disheveled pile in the snow. It's absolutely silent here. I clamber to my feet as Lancelot slides down from the horse.

"Seraphina!" His roar follows me as I skid back in the direction we've come. I don't make it far before a strong arm circles my waist and for the second time today I find myself thrown over an angry warrior's broad shoulder. This time however, I am far from immobile. I pound my fists into Lancelot's armored back as he carries me to his horse once more. I kick wildly and utter every curse Alex taught me. Lancelot sets me on my feet and clamps a hand over my mouth, silencing my fiery words.

"Shush you fool," he hisses. I sink my teeth into his hand. He draws back in pained disgust.

"We have to go back!"

"What is it with you and biting," Lancelot growls, overlooking my cries as he inspects his hand. "Do you plan on biting the Saxons to death, my lady?" I turn on my heels, take one step, and am quickly dragged back.

"We shall stay here until Arthur sends for us," Lancelot informs me in a no nonsense tone.

"You mean we'll cower here while your fellow knights are in need!" Lancelot's face hardens at my words. His jaw twitches as he tries to control his anger.

"They can handle themselves better without you getting in the way. Honestly woman, have you no sense? When I tell you to run, you run, don't sit and stare wide eyed." His reprimand stings.

"We have to help them." My voice wavers desperately. Flashes of my nightmares are returning. They drain my strength rapidly. Lancelot's steely expression eases perceptibly. He rests a steadying hand on my shoulder.

"You're trembling," he notes.

"It's cold and my cloak…" I trail off, unwilling to broach the topic of my discarded cloak. I meet Lancelot's profound eyes agitatedly. "Please," I mumble. "We can't leave them. I can't…" Alex's frightened voice fills my ears. _"Take Helena and run as far as you can. Hide somewhere. Don't come back, no matter what happens." _Lancelot catches me as my legs give way. He sets me down carefully on a rotted stump. I hunch into myself, overcome with exhaustion. It's eerily silent for the longest time until I can't bear it any longer.

"I ran." The confession is like broken fragments of my soul slicing through my vocal chords and spewing out across the snow. I stare at my feet, eyes downcast in shame. "I ran and watched them die." Lancelot doesn't speak for awhile. I'm not sure how I expected him to react.

"Arthur and the others will not die," he states forcefully, as though the strength of his will can make it true.

"I know they won't, but-" Again I can't find the correct words to express the tangled emotions clawing at my chest.

"Finish your sentences or keep quiet," Lancelot snaps in irritation. Even as the harsh words leave his mouth, he drapes his own cloak around my quaking body. It smells of him; cold sweat, horse, and leather.

"Teach me to fight." I square my shoulders, bracing myself for the onslaught of his rekindled anger. His fists clench until the knuckles shine white.

"Why won't you pester Galahad to train you? He'd be overjoyed." I've thought of asking Galahad or one of the others, but smothered the idea within seconds. Without a doubt they're all skilled warriors, but I need more than just skill. I need someone who's willing to be tough. Galahad wouldn't dare strike out at me with his full force. Plus, Lancelot is the only one I've told about my plans. He's the only one who understands my need.

"It has to be you," I say simply. He scoffs, rolling his eyes at my lackluster reply.

"I'm flattered, my lady." He bows mockingly. I snatch his wrist, digging my nails into his gauntlets.

"I never want to feel helpless again. I'm tired of running." Something flickers in Lancelot's eyes and I allow myself to hope for a brief second. Maybe I've won. Just as swiftly, he masks himself and snakes free from my hold.

"Then don't run. Try hiding next time." Tristan's hawk soars over us. The scout's boots crunch in the snow as he approaches. I tear my eyes from Lancelot, swallowing my disappointment. Every attempt I make fails. I'm destined to flee for the remainder of my days.

"Are there any injured?" It's the first question Lancelot asks. Tristan jerks his head from one side, then the other. Lancelot relaxes visibly.

"It's safe to return," the scout says lowly. I snort at his choice of wording.

"Safe?" I chortle sarcastically. "Does such a thing exist?" Tristan's amber eyes sparkle coldly, a sardonic smile slashes across his worn face.

"Aye, you're finally catching on, girl."

"Not nearly fast enough," Lancelot grumbles as he boosts me onto the stallion. I lean away, loathe to touch him while still remembering the ways in which he touched me. Tristan follows behind us on foot. I wish I could walk at his side instead, but I'm not given the option.

My eyelids begin to droop no matter how ruthlessly I battle against the weariness. My life has become a string of days that are too long and sleepless nights, restless knights. I'm drifting away against my will until I forfeit and slump into Lancelot. Regardless of whether I hate him or not, his firm presence is strangely reassuring, if still infuriating. My head falls into the crook of his arm as I meander into the world of nightmares waiting for me gleefully.

"Sleep." Lancelot's instruction comes to me fuzzily.

"Right," I murmur, my tongue laden with fatigue. "I think I'll hide now." His amused chuckle trails me into endless darkness.

* * *

I tip toe through the still bodies. How many more dead men will I bear witness too? Is my soul as stained with blood as the snow? My eyes are still dry with exhaustion. The short journey to camp wasn't long enough for much sleep.

Carefully, I set aside the events that have occurred in such quick succession, from my weak attempt to seduce Lancelot to the sudden Woad attack. My cheeks flare involuntarily at the memory of Lancelot's hands and the restrictive pressure of his lips. I've never kissed a man until today. I always imagined it would be a happier occasion. Silently, I berate myself for wallowing in something as silly as a lost first kiss. Romance does not belong in this world or my life any longer. To think I used to fancy myself in love with Arthur. He isn't quite as attractive now with blood drenching his taught face.

A muffled groan diverts my attention from the busy Roman commander. Cautiously, I bend down next to a fallen man, really no more than a boy. His thin eyelids flutter to reveal two watery eyes, shot through with spidery veins. He lifts his hand and clasps the edge of my tunic in his bloody fingers. The boy's chest heaves as he strives to fill his punctured lungs with air. I avert my eyes from the gaping wound in his neck, so deep I can see the white of bone at his shoulder. By all rights he should have died long ago, yet here he is clinging to life. I can't bring myself to hate him, even though he attacked us.

"Lady," he sputters, crimson rivulets dripping between his teeth. His eyes search my face with an eerie clarity. I can feel death upon us. Something stirs beneath my breast and I reach out to stroke the feathery, dark hair from his eyes.

"Hush now, son," I croon, in an attempt to alleviate his apparent panic. His fingers dig even deeper into me, as though I can keep him here.

"You must-" His words splinter off into a vicious onslaught of coughs. Blood splatters my cheek and I cringe at the warmth. His eyes are pleading with me to understand what his lips are too weak to express, but I don't comprehend.

"Easy," I whisper, choking on my own sadness. I stroke his smooth, beardless cheek gently. He flinches at my touch. I gasp at the sudden urgency in his stare.

"They're coming for you, lady. They'll-" Another bout of coughs.

"Who's coming?" My heart falters in anticipation.

"Merlin sent us to…to warn…" Merlin? The name is gut wrenchingly familiar.

"Warn who? I don't understand." The boy is fading quickly. I take his hand and press it against my chest, urging him to speak.

"Saxons." His head lolls to the side. I can still see his last word written like a crime across his cracked lips and my mind spins. The Woad boy's wide eyes peer up at me blankly. I can see my reflection in the dark pupils until I gently lower his fragile eyelids.

"Thank-you." I kiss his cold knuckles before placing his hand over his chest reverently. The boy deserves to be mourned, but there is no time for tears or regrets. I leave his broken body alone to be covered with snow and march quickly to Arthur where he stands surveying the destruction with his scout.

"My lady?" Arthur takes in my befuddled expression and steadies me with a firm hand. I try to remain calm, but the tumble of words that spews from my mouth is jumbled.

"They're coming. This wasn't an ambush, it was a warning, and now they're coming for me. For me! I'm not ready for them yet. I-"

"Shush girl. You're not making any sense." Tristan's sharp interruption steadies me. His amber eyes study my face, not cruelly, but slightly irritated. Arthur tightens his grip on my forearm and I remember to breathe.

"Who's coming?" Arthur asks softly, as though he's speaking to a child, and suddenly I feel much younger than I have in a long time.

"Saxons." Tristan curses in a foreign tongue, but Arthur silences him with a quick glance before gesturing for me to explain.

"The boy, he was dying, he said that Merlin sent them to warn us, or me I guess."

"Are you sure he said Merlin?" Arthur's expression darkens.

"Absolutely. He didn't mean _the_ Merlin, did he? The Woads leader?"

"You've heard of him?" the Roman commander asks surprised.

"Only in stories and such. I've never met him. Why would he be trying to warn me of-?"

"They tried to take her." Lancelot's dark voice circles around me. I hadn't noticed him lingering at my back. "The Woads were ordered to bring her with them. I'd be willing to bet my life on it." Tristan nods his silent agreement. I look at each of them with unconcealed disbelief.

"Impossible!" I cry. Lancelot silences any more arguments I may have offered with a warning glare.

"If what the Woad boy said is true, we should waste no more time here," Lancelot declares. Tristan's eyes flicker deftly through the trees, as though he expects a whole bloody army of Saxons to race out of the shadows. Arthur keeps a weary hand on the hilt of his sword. He beckons for Galahad, Bors, Dagonet, and Gawain to join us.

"What is it, Arthur?" Bors grunts, catching onto the tension in the atmosphere.

"We'll explain later. Now we must leave." Even though I can see strong curiosity burning in their eyes, the clueless knights follow orders without complaint. They mount their horses, each drawing their weapons. I'm not surprised when Lancelot lifts me onto his own stallion without a word.

We ride hard, leaving the makeshift graveyard behind us. I send a secret prayer out for the boy. Just because my soul is lost doesn't mean his must be as well. Lancelot keeps a painful hold around my waist, practically crushing me into him. When I squirm uncomfortably, he merely tightens his grip. My heart pounds to the rhythm of hooves thundering against the ground.

It's hours before Arthur relaxes into a steady pace. The sun is high in the crystal clear sky. I breathe a sigh of relief as Lancelot's arm loosens ever so slightly. I barely pay attention to Arthur as he explains to the other knights what I learned from the dead Woad. My mind is a whirlpool of confusion. Why would Merlin be interested me? Did he mean to help me or take me prisoner like the Saxons? Since when did I become so important!

"Girl, what did you do?" Bors's booming voice shakes me from my short reverie. I blink dazedly up at his bemused face.

"Pardon me?"

"If it's not an army of Saxons after your pretty, little head, then it's the Woads trying to abduct you. Are all Princessa's such trouble?"

"I wouldn't know," I say honestly, deciding it'd be pointless to rebuke his reference to my royalty. Bors reaches over to pat my arm sympathetically. Confusion is sapping me of all strength. I lean into Lancelot, comforted by his bulk. Right now, firmly behind me, he's the only thing that seems real.

"Don't worry," Galahad says reassuringly from our other side, his face gleaming earnestly. "We'll keep you safe." Lancelot's hand clenches briefly on the reigns. I overlook it as nothing more than a muscle spasm.

"But who's going to watch out for you?" I tease halfheartedly. The young knight's buoyant laugh seems to chase away some of the weariness in my heart. I smile graciously at Galahad and Bors, a faint stir of affection rising from the ashes of so many bitter and awful feelings. I know I shouldn't like them and I also know that I can't help myself. The two knights ride ahead, falling into a military formation. The silence left between Lancelot and myself is heavy and awkward. I feel as though I owe him some explanation, or apology.

"My behavior the other night-" I begin shakily.

"Was no better than mine," Lancelot cuts me off brusquely. I wish I could see his expression, but turning to look would put us in an uncomfortable position, so I satisfy myself by gauging the reaction of his hands on the reigns.

"I shouldn't have thrown myself at you in such a manner." I continue, my voice wavers only a bit, but he's sure to feel the fire of shame on my skin. It all seemed like a brilliant plan at the time, until he spurned me. In all honesty, I'm glad he refused the terms of my bargain. I've come to grips with my own foolishness, but it doesn't lessen the sting of hard fact. I was not good enough for him. It's the last thing I should dwell upon with Woads and Saxons on my trail, mysteries running wild, and my family still waiting to be revenged. Lancelot's hand tightens around the reigns again, causing the horse to sway its head in annoyance.

"It won't happen again," I finish lamely, waiting for him to make some acknowledgement that I've spoken. Of course he doesn't. He probably enjoys watching me squirm under pressure. My temper gets the best of me yet again at his silence.

"Well?" I snap.

"Well what?" Lancelot's voice is carefully measured.

"Aren't you going to say something?"

"What would you like to hear, Princessa?" I swallow the urge to kick him in the shin. It would do neither of us any good.

"Tell me I'm a fool. Insult me. Tell me that everything is alright." I falter over the last line. Lancelot's sigh stirs my hair.

"You certainly are a fool," he mumbles.

"Thank-you," I huff. Lancelot chuckles, his chest shaking slightly against my back. There's another pause in conversation. My eyes are still heavy, but I don't want to sleep.

"What do you know of Merlin? I've always heard talk he was a powerful magician."

"Fairy tales," Lancelot snorts. "He can no more conjure magic than I, but no one can deny he's a mighty leader."

"The Woads are your enemy, are they not?"

"Rome's enemy." I'm not sure what he means, but his sour tone keeps me from prying. Today is not one for more fighting. There's been enough bloodshed and harsh words to last us a lifetime.

"Have you ever been to Rome?"

"No."

"I was born there, but I don't remember much other than the stench and noise. Do you think Merlin means to harm me?"

"Everyone else seems to," Lancelot grunts aggravated. It's obvious he blames me for this mess and really I can't penalize him for it.

"It doesn't make sense though. The boy said they were trying to warn me. Why did they ambush us?"

"They didn't ambush _you_," he sneers. "They came to take you and we were in the way."

"But I'm not important." Lancelot is silent once more. He doesn't seem to share my enthusiasm for chatting at the moment.

"When you teach me to fight, can we do archery as well?" Lancelot groans and utters a muffled curse.

"There will be no teaching of anything. I liked you better when you brooded."

"Liked me?"

"Hated you less," he admits coolly.

"If you hate me so, why did you save me last night?" I finally work up the courage to ask a question that's been bothering me.

"Arthur asked me to protect you," Lancelot states simply.

"And you always do as he says?"

"He is my commander."

"But he's Roman. You don't like Rome." Lancelot stiffens against me, letting me know my estimation was correct.

"How can anyone like your cursed country?" he hisses viciously.

"It is not _my_ country!" I retort. "I hardly know it."

"Blood is blood."

"My blood has been spilled upon this land, not Rome's." I push away thoughts of my family with difficulty. Lancelot brushes the back of my hand with his calloused fingers briefly. The touch so quick I wonder if it was a figment of my tangled imagination.

"I follow Arthur because he is a good man, but once I'm free I shall leave this place."

"Free?" I ask befuddled. Lancelot clucks his tongue as the stallion begins to veer off a bit.

"We've been enslaved to Rome for fifteen years. Once we reach the wall we will be given our discharge papers." I think back to the stories Alex told me about Sarmatia. He never mentioned anything about the knights being "enslaved".

"But you fight for Rome out of gratitude," I cry belligerently.

"Gratitude for what?" Lancelot snaps. A twist of fear clenches in my stomach at his anger.

"For being spared after the ancient wars." Before I can comprehend what's happening, Lancelot's wrapping his strong hand around my neck and forcing me to meet his steely glare. We're so close I could count his curved eyelashes. A repressed shiver rolls down my spine fluidly.

"You know nothing," he spits venomously. "You mourn your precious family, but at least you remember them. I was taken from my mother's arms as a child, beaten into submission by holy, Roman men, and sent out to do their dirty work. I would be grateful had they destroyed our entire race during the wars."

"I…I didn't…" I stutter, hopelessly flustered by the raging revulsion in his smoldering eyes. With a disgusted snarl, he releases his grip on my neck, and I turn away relieved. This time when we drift into silence, I have no urge to rekindle our conversation. Up ahead, Gawain is laughing at something Galahad's said. Behind us Tristan murmurs soft words to his hawk while Dagonet nods kindly when he catches me glancing back. Bors is speaking with Arthur in the lead, his broad face untroubled even with danger looming all around us. The thought of these men in chains sickens me, even Lancelot and Gawain, who never cease to irritate me.

My father was loyal to Rome even after he was exiled. I've never held any qualms with the nation. Yet now an indescribable feeling of disgust churns deep within me. No one deserves to be shackled. I rest my hand over Lancelot's in a muted gesture of atonement for my naivety.

"It's easier not to remember them," I whisper, almost wishful that he won't hear me. "Your family, that is." Lancelot shakes my hand off of his gently.

"Aye, but forgetting only makes monsters of us."

I'd rather be a monster than live in constant agony, but I decide not to tell him that. He already knows.

* * *

We've been riding so long I feel removed from my body. Arthur leads us ever closer to the jagged mountains looming at the other side of this wide, seemingly endless desert of snow. After a heated argument debating what path we should take, it was decided that the mountain pass was our best bet. It's a perilous journey, but we're less likely to encounter either Woads or Saxons. No one ventures upon those menacing peaks during the dead of winter. Except for us of course.

Our group has moved in closer, compacted into a tight bundle of nervous energy. Galahad lightens the air with silly stories from his younger days in the Roman fort. His boyish energy warms me more than Lancelot's chilly armor or the cloak pulled to my chin.

"Turns out it was a bucket of pig's slop rather than stew!" Galahad cries, wrapping up yet another tale. My sides ache from laughing so hard and I can even feel Lancelot quivering from subdued chuckles.

"Poor lad was sick for days," Dagonet sighs, shaking his head in exasperation.

"Never seen such a shade of vomit before," Bors adds. "Brighter than a court lady's gown."

"Well, I wouldn't have been puking for days if you'd had the courtesy to warn me," Galahad grunts.

"What's the fun in that?"

"Plus, didn't you return the favor by rubbing poison ivy inside his breeches?" Gawain asks. Galahad grins proudly in response.

"I was scratching my bum for weeks and that blessed rash…" Bors grumbles, scowling. I'm gasping for breath by the time my peals of laughter subside.

"That reminds me of the time Alex…" My throat constricts around his name. I haven't spoken it aloud in such a long time.

"Alex?" Galahad questions, not seeing the warning in Arthur's eyes.

"My brother." I try to swallow the bile that rebels against my tongue. Lancelot was wrong earlier. He may have been torn from his birth family, but these knights are just as much his brothers as Alex was mine. He's a selfish bastard for not realizing how lucky he is to have them. They've been raised together. They've fought side by side and now I'm threatening their chance at freedom. With a heavy sigh, I return my focus to the imposing mountains. We're fast approaching their base.

Arthur reigns in his horse near a protective shelter of boulders. With a subtle nod to Tristan, the scout leaps gracefully from his mount and disappears behind the barrier. He returns quickly.

"Clear," he states assuredly. Arthur rubs his tired face and glances worriedly at the setting sun, then at me. I try to appear brave and spirited, but it's obvious that if Lancelot weren't still holding me I'd have fallen out of the saddle long ago.

"We'll rest here tonight before beginning the climb." For once, I don't argue with authority. The moment Lancelot's arm drops away from my waist, I find myself sliding sideways. He catches me swiftly before placing my feet on the ground. My sore legs tremble and I'm too worn to hide my weakness.

"Steady," he murmurs. I'm able to see his face again. Lancelot's dark curls are windswept. I'd brush them into order if my arms weren't so bogged down with exhaustion. The effort of standing is more than enough to drain me of every last dreg of strength. My bandaged ribs scream at each breath. I find myself staring at Lancelot's slightly parted lips, trying to remember what they felt like. He smirks dryly, noticing where my attention lies.

"Silly girl," he chuckles, before calling for Galahad. I frown slightly as he passes me to the younger knight.

"Deal with her while I speak to Arthur," Lancelot instructs firmly. I watch him walk away and let Galahad lead me to where the others have settled behind the rocks. I fall into the snow and it becomes a feather mattress. Galahad pulls my cloak around me in a fatherly fashion.

"Did you really eat pig slop?" I ask blearily. He smiles down at me.

"Aye, and trust me when I say it was no treat."

"I tried chicken feed once because-" Galahad places a finger to my lips, his bright eyes sparkling comically.

"I look forward to hearing all about your chicken feed incident, but now you must sleep. Tomorrow will be another long day." I nod compliantly and huddle down into my cloak. There's always another sunrise to face. With unrestrained cynicism, I wonder what horrors the new day will bestow upon us.


	7. Chapter 7

**DISCLAIMER:** Oh, what's the bother. You already know what I have to say here!

* * *

_"Part of what makes us human is what we mean to other people, _

_and what other people mean to us."_

_-John Scalzi_

**SEVEN**

~Lancelot~

The higher we climb the colder it becomes. Seraphina shivers violently, her teeth clattering in syncopation with the horses hooves threading cautiously on the narrow, mountain path. I pull her closer to me, welcoming the trickle of warmth her slight body offers. She wriggles uncomfortably in an attempt to slip away, but gives in with an aggravated huff.

For the better part of the day I've listened to her talk about everything and anything. My ears are ringing from the altitude and her clear voice rambling a long winded fairy tale she learned as a child. I stopped trying to make sense of her babbling hours ago, but the steady flow of words eases a bit of the tension curled in my stomach. She's frightened, that much is apparent, and trying to stifle her fear with meaningless conversation. Still a pinch guilty for taking advantage of her the other night, I let her have her distraction and bite back my complaints. It's better that I'm not distracted by arguments when my focus is needed on the winding path ahead. One misstep and we'll both be sent to an abysmal grave.

But her hair tickles my neck and it's difficult to remain centered. I'd suggest she ride with Galahad for a bit if my ridiculous promise to Arthur would stop nipping at the back of my mind. Seraphina isn't outrageously attractive. She's growing thin from days of stale bread rations. Her face is wan and deep, violet circles shadow her glassy eyes. The girl's sick. Her body burns with fever, but she keeps her complaints to herself. She knows as well as I that we have no time to dawdle, pain or no pain.

Still, when she shifts in the saddle I grimace at my own lack of self control. Whether I dislike her or not, it doesn't alter the fact that she's a woman, albeit a naïve one, and I've been bereft of female company for too long. I would have taken her were it not for Arthur. Her innocence is almost tantalizing. I'd like to ruin her for my own selfish pleasure, physical and vengeful. But I know what she would expect in return and it is something I will not give her. I won't tangle myself in her revenge. There is enough blood on my hands without hers. If I train her, she'll die. Even if death is what she wants, I've made my promise to Arthur and I plan on keeping it.

Yet I keep fighting with myself. Seraphina looks at me with a burning desire I am well acquainted with, not one for flesh, but blood. A dark voice whispers in the deepest part of my mind, the place I keep hidden from even myself. She deserves her revenge. How many times have I dreamt of burning Rome to the ground for what they've put us knights through? Fifteen years I've tamed the urge. I know what it is like to live as a prisoner to a revenge you cannot take. No one deserves such a fate. Not even irritating Roman Princessa's.

Regardless, my loyalty to Arthur overshadows everything else. Freeing her isn't my duty. Ironically enough I have become Seraphina's prison warden. She has become mine as well. We are chained to one another by a cruel twist of fate. Her useless crucifix has become a constant reminder of that as it burns into my chest, hidden from everyone else.

"Are you listening to me?" Seraphina's indignant question drags me away from my own inner turmoil.

"No," I grunt honestly.

"I asked where Arthur plans to take me."

"Hadrian's wall. Our fort is there." My answers are brief compared to her long winded spiels.

"Oh," Seraphina sighs. I'm interested by her sudden loss for words and against better judgment I pry into the cause.

"Oh? Are you disappointed, my lady?" It takes her a long time to answer and I begin to think she won't at all, but when she begins to speak I recognize the tone instantly. It's weary. She stumbles clumsily over the syllables as though her tongue is rebelling against what she's trying to say.

"W…We were going…my brother and I…we planned to go someday. I wanted to see Arthur's round table." The last part comes out in a blurred rush. She slumps against me, as though it took all of her energy to say that handful of words.

"It isn't nearly as impressive as people make it out to be. Shoddy craftsmanship to be perfectly honest." Seraphina chuckles halfheartedly at my weak humor.

"I used to wonder if Arthur would allow a woman to join his table as well." Her voice regains some of its force. She's becoming more adept at hiding her sorrow. I rarely see it behind the anger anymore.

"Guinevere sits at his side."

"Guinevere?" Seraphina stumbles over the name befuddled. I smile crookedly as I recall the fiery Woad woman we left behind at the wall. She certainly had some choice words for Arthur when he ordered her to remain at the fort.

"We rescued her a few months back from the captivity of a Roman Lord. Right foul git the man was, torturing Woads for his petty God."

"She's a Woad and yet she's welcome at the round table!" Seraphina cries in alarm, turning to face me over her shoulder, her eyes wide in shock. It's certainly an amusing expression, very childlike. My grin widens at her reaction.

"Guinevere is Arthur's lover." I whisper the last word seductively, enjoying Seraphina's wild blush. Not for the first time I'm amazed by her ability to be embarrassed over simple things while not in the least bit inhibited when it comes to killing men three times her girth.

"But isn't that frowned upon. He's Roman after all. Woads are his enemy." Her words wipe away any traces of good humor I may have been feeling, replacing them with twisted confusion. We haven't had any skirmishes with the Woads sense Guinevere joined our court. She is powerful among her people, all though she refuses to share why, and an unspoken truce was formed between the Woads and Arthur. Until now it would seem. I analyze the girl before me. She flushes once more under my scrutiny and turns away. What about her is so important that Merlin would risk our shaky peace?

"Enemies are only a step away from allies," I say vaguely, hating myself for sounding so mystic.

"Have I told you why we were banished?" Seraphina asks after a short pause. I grunt noncommittally and she needs no more invitation than that to go on.

"My mother was a Woad. She came to Rome when she was very young. The emperor disapproved of my parent's union, calling it an abomination of the holy church. But you know what's funny?" She catches her breath and keeps up the steady flow of confession before I can say anything. "Mother was Christian! Of course the emperor didn't care. To him all Woads are pagans. Papa married her anyways and was exiled. He forfeited his title, his claim to the throne, and his home. Isn't it sweet?"

"Or stupid," I snort, quickly regretting my judgment. After all, these are her dead parent's she's speaking of, not foolish characters in one of her fairy tales.

"We weren't unhappy," she states defensively. "Emperor Anthemius was kind enough. He and father were family after all."

"Family?"

"Cousins."

"Yet he still sent your father into exile. It doesn't sound very kind to me."

"We were happy," Seraphina repeats dreamily. I've encouraged her too much. These are not things I care to know. The less of her I learn the better. It only complicates things if she places her life story in my hands.

Now I understand her surprise at hearing of Arthur and Guinevere's union. Arthur may be an important man, but he is no cousin to the emperor. They may dislike his choice in a partner, but he isn't monumental enough for them to make too much of a fuss about it. We're just pawns in their devious game. Seraphina's father must have been a noble man. He must have followed his heart like Arthur.

I quickly push those thoughts away. Her father was a Roman, banished royalty. It does not matter what he was in life, for death has no nobility nor heart. It has no bias or love, just enduring emptiness.

"Do you think…?" Seraphina falters, her voice snuffing out like candlelight, only to be replaced by a gut wrenching yell that's all too familiar. I've heard it in battle a hundred times. Dread clutches my heart as I lift my eyes to the front of the line where Galahad's mare is rearing back, whinnying in fright as her front hooves slip along a patch of loose pebbles. My youngest brother's face is scarred with hysteria as he struggles to remain in the saddle, but his attempt is futile. I watch horrified as Galahad is tossed aside over the narrow ledge. I don't even register that Seraphina's freed herself from my slackened grasp until it's too late.

The girl skitters to the edge, barely dodging Galahad's still panicked horse. She throws herself to the ground, her arms flailing wildly as she reaches out to the fallen knight. I don't waste anymore time watching. The others are trapped behind me, the path too constricted for them to go around. Their screams are muffled as time seems to slow. Seraphina's slender hand catches Galahad's, but she's not strong enough. As I run, slipping perilously on the ice, she's being pulled down by his weight. They're going to fall. I'm too far away. I can't lose another comrade and I can't fail Arthur by letting her die.

He reaches them first. In my panic I hadn't even seen Arthur racing to the same goal as me. He drops to his knees, grabbing the back of Seraphina's tunic. I skid to a halt at my commander's side and together we pull with all of our might. Galahad kicks against the slippery surface of the cliff, trying to push himself up. Fear clings to my skin, clouding my thoughts, until the girl's face appears. I take Galahad's other hand as he still dangles above the seemingly endless abyss.

"Let go," I order. Seraphina's fingers are still tangled within Galahad's, Arthur's arm firmly around her waist to keep her from going over once more.

"I won't," she screams. Her face turns crimson from the effort of trying to lift the armored man, but true to her word she never lets ago, not even after Galahad crumples in a heap at our feet. I stumble backwards, slamming into the rock face behind me. My blood thrums in my ears, drowning out all sound as the other men swarm us. Tristan kneels before me. His mouth moves soundlessly, but I understand him through the silence and nod off his concern.

As my breathing evens, the world narrows in my focus. I see Arthur in the funnel of my vision. His normally calm eyes are swirling with lingering terror and, to my surprise, guilt. One of his hands hovers over Seraphina's shoulder, prepared to grab her if more danger should arise, but the girl is oblivious. She continues to cling to a pale-faced Galahad, as though he were still falling. Dagonet tries to disentangle her, but she shakes her head adamantly. The scene seems somewhat unreal.

Arthur meets my gaze and in that moment a new realization hits me hard. The guilt in his expression is not meant for Galahad. It's for her. I open my mouth to speak, the words escaping my grasp, and Arthur nods imperceptibly. There's something he's not telling us. I hold my tongue for now. It isn't the time to ask. Panic is still making my limbs lock up. What if we had lost Galahad? The idea pierces my heart like one of Tristan's well-aimed arrows. I see the same pain on my fellow brother's faces. We have lost too many. We will not lose more, so close to freedom, for a little girl.

I will confront Arthur. No more of his vague excuses about loyalty and what is right. He will tell me the real reason we're risking our necks for the Princessa. If he doesn't, I will no longer be his to control. I will not follow a commander who lies to his men, his friends. A commander who asks me to protect for no other reason than it his wish. A commander who cannot trust me enough to tell me the truth.

* * *

~Seraphina~

I sit alone in the darkness, shunned by the others. They have every right to be angry. If it weren't for me Galahad would not have slipped into Death's sneaky trap. I cringe at the recent memory. My fingers tingle in an echo of his desperate grasp. Yes, if they had never found me than Arthur would not have led them through this treacherous mountain pass.

I curse myself silently. This is why I should have kept my distance from them, why I shouldn't have allowed Galahad to burrow his way into my affections. These times are dangerous. I cannot allow myself to care for someone only to have them ripped away from me yet again. I clung to Galahad like a lost child, terrified to lose him. Once my mind cleared I couldn't get far enough away from him or the others. They looked at me with such contempt, such accusation.

The crunching of boots in the snow makes me jump. Galahad appears from the shadows, holding up one hand in a calming gesture. His face is still as pale as the snow. My heart flutters as he sits next to me. I wish he would go. I wish they all would go.

"You should not be here alone," Galahad says quietly. I bow my head, waiting for the blame I know is to come. A part of me feels as though he fell. Or maybe I am the one slipping?

"This isn't what I wanted," I blurt passionately.

"No one wishes for lives such as these." His voice is heavy with sorrow. There is no light hearted gleam or boyish smile present now. Death has a way of killing even when we survive.

"You don't understand. I never wanted to care for you!" Galahad flinches next to me. When I risk glancing at him, his generally soft features are honed in bitterness. He'll hate me now, and though it hurts, I know it's for the best.

"I never wanted to care for anyone again." My confession stumbles into a repressed sob of frustration. To my utter bewilderment, Galahad's expression changes instantly into the one I'm familiar with, nothing but kindness. He takes my hand in his and holds them up to eye level.

"Thank you." I try to free myself from his touch, but it's no use. I don't understand the gratitude in his crystalline eyes. "You saved my life."

"It wouldn't have needed saving if we'd never met to begin with," I mumble. Galahad tips my chin up, a sweet smile dancing across his lips.

"When are you going to stop blaming yourself for everything? I have faced death before without you around."

"But-"

"Don't argue or I'll be forced to throw you off the mountain. Trust me, it isn't an enjoyable experience." Against my will, a shaky laugh escapes my lips.

"It's your fault really," I sigh. "For being kind. You shouldn't make me like you." Galahad acquires a goofy, cocky expression that doesn't suit him.

"My charisma is irresistible. Would you rather I hated you like Gawain and Lancelot?"

"It'd make this simple." Galahad drapes his arm around my shoulder and, even though I know I shouldn't, I sink into him, resting my heavy head against his shoulder.

"Nothing is simple," he states wearily. "Friendship lessens the blow." I disagree, but hold my tongue anyways. There is no point fighting him anymore. Today only proves that I've made an irrevocable mistake. I've let him into my heart, broken and corrupted as it may be. The dark voices in my mind warn me of the dangers. Nothing good can come of this friendship. I'll only be forced to say goodbye in the end, but for now I'll revel in my poor judgment.

"This will end badly," I pronounce. Galahad chuckles, and though it's still laced with traces of fear, there's also a spark of light.

"Have hope, Sera. Some tales have happy endings."

Sera. Alex always called me Sera. I don't try to conceal the handful of silent tears running down my cheeks.

* * *

~Lancelot~

Tristan is perched atop a slight ledge, peering into the murky distance with his steady eyes. For once, I'm glad to have the silent scout as my companion. We watch the distant flickers of faraway fires, smoke trailing into the inky blackness. Saxons; an army of them. They arrived not long after sunset. Tristan assures us we aren't being trailed yet. They're oblivious to us lurking about in these thrice accursed mountains, but that fact doesn't lessen the tension in my gut. They're uncomfortably close.

"They're moving south." Tristan's voice is low, as though afraid of being overheard by the enemy at our backs. "Taking the easy route towards Hadrian's wall." His words send a tremor of dread throughout my body. Saxons have never threatened us so close to home before. For as long as I've been trapped in this bloody country they've kept a respectable distance to the north.

"Do you think they know we're taking the girl there?"

"If they know she's with Arthur, then it's possible. I don't think this is about the Princessa though. There's too many of them; an army." An army indeed. I scan the dozens of fires. This land is coveted. For years blood has been spilled between the Romans, Saxons, and Woads. It would seem the unofficial war that has been raging all this time is finally coming to a boil. However, once we return to the wall, it will no longer be my problem.

I turn my eyes away from the distant Saxons. Below, tucked away in a rocky alcove, Arthur is pacing. Each step is heavy with indecision and sorrow. I've never hated him as I do now. By not trusting me with his secrets, my pride has been spurned, and a man's pride is all he has in this careless world. Why does he defend her? Why did he reach for her hand before Galahad's, his brother in arms, a man who's fought at his side for fifteen long years?

Then I see our young knight, pale face luminescent in the night, with the girl fast asleep in his lap. No matter how many times I try to blame her for this, I cannot, and it only angers me further. She saved him; no matter how foolish and suicidal the attempt was, the damned Princessa reached him while I sat and did nothing. What right does she have to sacrifice herself for Galahad? The way she smiles at him is sickening.

Yet all the while I know it isn't their friendship that truly irks me. Of course Galahad would befriend her. He's the kindest of us all, drawn to wounded things because they remind him of himself. And the girl needs someone to care for. It certainly can't be me. I simply hate myself for nearly failing them both. If we had lost Galahad…not for the first time tonight the idea makes me shudder.

"He didn't die," Tristan states frankly, reading my turmoiled expression easily. I can't hide a thing from these men. We've been one for too long and we've seen too much through the same eyes.

"But he could have. We've lost too many as it is." I can see them clearly in my mind; some of them gone in the prime of their youth and others still fresh in my memory. They were my friends, my brother's.

"We all could die. It is the way of things." His calm attitude unnerves me, burrows under my already crawling skin.

"How can you be so callous?" I hiss, rounding on the scout. Tristan doesn't flinch at my rage, but his lips tighten into a taut line. I realize my mistake too late. His amber eyes aren't nearly as stable as they usually are. They seem to shimmer with carefully controlled sadness.

"Do not wear your emotions in plain sight, Lancelot. Not where they can be played upon by the enemy." I feel like a child under his stern reprimand, a rebellious child. Who is he to tell me things I already know? They are my emotions to wear wherever I like. I meet Tristan's gaze with fiery resentment.

"And do not dare tell me I am callous," the scout murmurs threateningly. However his expression relaxes. His eyes flick to Galahad so swiftly the motion is nearly lost on me. "I no more want to lose them than you." Tristan climbs skillfully down to the others before I can gather my senses, his unexpected confession weaving a confounded web around my mind. Maybe I don't know our scout as well as I'd like to think.

I stay on the ledge while gaining my courage. If I'm to face Arthur it might as well be now while things are relatively peaceful. Although I hate to shatter the few moments of calm we have, my pride will not allow me to follow him on blind faith any longer. I've never doubted Arthur until now. He's never kept secrets before. With one last skeptical glance at the Saxon camp, I descend into the depths of anticipation. I reluctantly find myself trying to follow Tristan's advice by masking my face, clearing it of the ridiculous hurt I feel at my commander's distrust.

"Artorius," I call firmly. In a quick instant, apprehension swallows us all. The men turn their eyes on me, warning's coming from every single one of them, but I'm beyond that now. Arthur ceases his pacing and faces me with wary eyes. He's been expecting this. There is no surprise in my commander's expression. Only the girl is at ease, still slumbering at Galahad's side.

"What have we done, Artorius, to deserve your distrust?" I wince at the subtle agony that passes through Arthur's seemingly ancient eyes.

"Must we have this conversation at every bend in the road, Lancelot?" he speaks evenly.

"Yes, when we are clueless as to where this road leads! To our deaths? And for what?" My anger is gaining the upper hand. I force myself to remain steady. Bors grunts as he clambers to his feet, his lined face flashing dangerously.

"Look here, Lancelot, I trust Arthur's judgment. This is no place to be swinging angry words," the large knight rumbles, coming to our commander's side.

"We have a right to know why we risk our lives for this girl, do we not?" I argue.

"Aye," Gawain grumbles, joining my ranks. "And no more talk of duty." Arthur's eyes never leave mine. It takes all of my strength not to back down, but my anger presses me onward.

"I know you Arthur, well enough to see that there is something you are keeping from us."

"Every man is due to have his secrets," Tristan interjects sullenly. Gawain laughs coldly at the scout's words.

"Not when they place us in danger!" he cries, jabbing his thumb in Galahad's direction. The young knight looks as though he'd like to leap up, but Seraphina is still curled in his lap.

"That was no fault of hers," Galahad snarls defensively in a quiet voice so as to not awaken the girl.

"Perhaps not, but what of the Woads? They haven't attacked us in months. And that band of Saxons? Arthur owes us an explanation. Is all of this simply because she's Roman royalty, exiled at that?"

"Arthur owes us nothing," Dagonet speaks gently, but with a sharp edge. We've never been divided like this before. It is an unpleasant feeling. Yet I continue to stare at Arthur with steely eyes.

"We've served him for fifteen long years, never questioning his judgment. I have never had a reason to until now, but if he does not trust us enough to share the truth than I will no longer be his slave." Dead silence meets my words. I've said the unthinkable and if I could, I'd swallow the words where they would never be heard again. But I cannot and Arthur doesn't try to hide the pain written across his face.

"My slave, Lancelot? Is that how I see you?" His words are muffled with sorrow.

"I hope to your God that it isn't, Arthur, but lately it has become that way. You give us these orders, and they are not Rome's commands, they are your own, and yet you can't bring yourself to give us a real explanation. I do not want educated words. I want the truth." We wait with baited breath. No one stirs. The air is so thick I'm choking on it. Arthur turns his hurt gaze on each of us, respect and regret mingled in one.

"I have not been fair to you, my knights."

"Arthur-" With a wave of his hand, he cuts off Galahad's protests.

"No, Lancelot is right. You deserve to know why I am leading you on this crusade. I am not your master." His eyes find me once more, resigned and tired, they seem to stare past me into another time, another world.

"It was so long ago," he begins introspectively. "I was but a boy when I first crossed paths with Konstantinos. He was a great man. I'd seen him in the city on the rare occasions my father brought me with him. Konstantinos was dignified, serene, and all the more frightening for it. We never exchanged words. After all, he was the Emperor's cousin, his second in command, and I was an inconsequential child." Arthur's words strike a chord in my memory. The emperor's cousin…Seraphina's story spins at the edge of my fingertips and I gasp as realization arrives.

"Her father," I gasp, glancing briefly at the slumbering girl. Arthur nods sadly.

"She was yet to be born of course. Konstantino's would not be exiled for years to come. At the time he was the second most powerful man in Rome and he was also my salvation." Arthur fades off, as though the memories are struggling to stay hidden. Guilt grips my heart. I should not have pushed him to this, but all the while I'm impatient for him to continue.

"I have never told you of my past. It's a fickle thing, isn't it?" Bors chuckles darkly and nods his large head in agreement.

"Then I think it's time to share a piece of my history." Arthur breathes in deeply, closing his eyes for a moment. "My village was attacked by Woads, just short of a year after my father's death. I remember they slinked from the woods like ghosts, nightmares, and I was fascinated at first until the flames and screaming began." Arthur's hand grips the hilt of his sword, Excalibur, instinctually. I'm frozen into place, wondering what any of this has to do with the Roman girl.

"Mother was trapped inside the house. I couldn't get to her, so I ran to my father's grave and retrieved his sword, intending to cut down the door." He strokes Excalibur affectionately. I never knew it was his father's sword. I never knew any of this.

"It was too late. The flames had consumed everything. As I stood there, covered in ash, an insatiable rage…" Arthur trails off, unable to express the emotion we all know well. "I lashed out at the Woads still lingering. My mother had been one of them and they had murderer her regardless. I wanted to kill them, but I was a boy and they were skilled warriors. I would have died had Konstantino's not found me." Seraphina stirs in the corner of my eye, but I'm too ensnared by Arthur's tale to make anything of the slight movement.

"He pulled me from the fight and brought me to Rome. He told me that revenge was not the path to take even though I fought him to the bitter end. We parted ways of course and shortly there after he was banished for marrying a Woad woman. I thought he was a traitor for it. I have never hated someone as much as I hated that man, but I would not be alive were it not for him. I would not be the man I am today and for that I will protect his daughter as he protected me." Arthur meets our eyes once more, a stead fast determination replacing the reminiscent anguish. Understanding perforates the atmosphere. I bow my head to my commander, all animosity or hurt pride obliterated.

"I should not have doubted your noble heart," I say in atonement. Before Arthur can speak, a shadowy form comes between us.

"Liar!" Seraphina cries rashly. "They killed your mother in cold blood and yet you spend your nights in the arms of one of their women? You hate them! You must!" Arthur reaches out towards her, but the girl stumbles back, hissing like a caged animal with no where to run.

"You didn't know my father! He would have told me!" I can't bear to look at her as she quivers before Arthur. I understand her rage. Her father talked Arthur out of his revenge. He wouldn't have approved of her quest for blood.

"It was long ago, my lady," Arthur says reassuringly. "Things slip from the mind."

"Why didn't you go after them? Kill your dirty whoring Woad. Kill me for I am one of their bastard children." Seraphina drops to her knees, her arms outstretched on either side.

"Half heathen, half Roman," she sobs. "Take your revenge, Artorius." Unable to stand this any longer, I take a step forward, intending to drag her away, but Arthur stops me with a single glance. This is their battle, not mine for once.

"I do not seek vengeance. It is not what my parents, nor your father, would have wished for."

"Don't speak as though you know him!" You don't- you…" Her arms fall to her sides. This time when Arthur rests his hand on her bowed head, she doesn't draw back. They stand frozen that way for some time, united by the similarities of their pasts. It's strange how closely bound they are, linked by a common pain, only Arthur has overcome his history and Seraphina remains trapped within hers. They're an image of naïve and wise, broken and battered, hate and compassion.

"Your father was a good man," Arthur whispers soulfully. "Mourn him, child, and let go." Seraphina lifts her chin, all of her old defiance returned in this moment. She climbs to her feet, shedding Arthur's condolence. She isn't the kind hearted soul he is. Her past is not something she can come to terms with as Arthur has, not without blood spilled. I see it all too clearly where as Arthur's hopeful eyes are blind.

Without a word, she turns on her heel. Dagonet places a restrictive hand on Galahad as he prepares to follow her into the writhing shadows.

"Let her be," he mumbles to the young knight. No one speaks as we settle in for the night, our hearts burdened by the scene we've witnessed. I can't bring myself to meet Arthur's eyes now. Wisdom and benevolence will not quench Seraphina's pain. I know what I must do. Even though it means betraying Arthur. Everyone deserves freedom. From themselves most of all.

* * *

~Arthur~

I've locked these memories away; buried beneath my blood and bones where they may rest in peace, buried in my parent's graves. Seraphina is the key. Now in the glow of distant enemy flames, I bring them out into the light, embracing them like old friends…

_We walk. His horse fled while my village burned. I like traveling by foot, day and night, and I like the blisters rising on the undersides of my feet. I walk barefoot so that every rock and thorn can become a part of my pain. Konstantinos' boots crunch along the dirt road beside me. They're polished so brightly I could see my reflection on the toes if I cared to look._

_I haven't spoken. Neither has he. We're simply moving in the same direction and at times it feels as though I'm not moving at all. I have to glance back at our subtle trail left behind in the dusty road; one set of large, booted feet and another set of boyish prints. Will they follow us, the Woads, the heathens? I wish they would. _

_Father's sword drags along the ground, although I try my hardest to keep it high. Konstantinos offered to take my burden, but I refused. This is my cross to bear, my dusty and scuffed cross, and my bloody feet take one step at a time when all they really long to do is leap backwards. Home is a wasteland. I must remind myself there is nothing for me in that place of sweet dreams. Yet I find myself forgetting more often than not. I awaken in the night, lost and afraid, with no recognition of the land or the man keeping guard with his heavy lidded eyes. Doesn't he ever get tired? I don't like to sleep._

_I see Mother kneeling at the river bend dipping laundry into the playful water. She calls for me to stay away from the deep end. She smiles, lips painted with sunshine, and splashes my cheek. When I touch my skin in the dark of night I feel the dewy drops. They're tears. _

"_Don't cry, boy," Konstantinos says, not without sympathy, as he stokes our tame fire. Sometimes I'm frightened by the curling flames. Sometimes I see her inside the smoke and I wonder where it goes. Are these ashes the same as hers? Excalibur seems to wink at my foolishness. _

"_Where are we going?" I ask Konstantinos, my voice unsure from days of silence._

"_To the end of the road." It isn't a very good answer, so I repeat my question. "We're just walking," he says. I stop. There's nothing behind me and there's nothing ahead of me. Why should I keep moving to a destination that does not exist? The Woads are far away. They've taken everything and I itch knowing that their blood also runs rampant in my veins. I cut myself on Excalibur's blunt edge the other night, trying to drain myself of the part of me that also belongs to them._

"_I don't want to walk anymore." Konstantinos strides the few steps back to me. I swing Excalibur in a wide arc, a clear warning for him to keep his distance. The motion feels natural. My blood sings like a chorus of angels out of key. Roman against Woad. Me against myself. _

"_I'm tired." I'm angry and that's more. With an easy grace, Konstantinos knocks my father's sword to the ground. Without the hilt in my hand I am nothing; a creature less than human, yet still expected to walk. Always walk. He clasps my head between his roughened palms and brings my eyes to his._

"_You will keep going until God tells you to stop."_

"_To hell with God." I spit on his polished boots spitefully. I kiss the ground, my ears whistling from the force of his unexpected blow. He rests one of those boots upon my neck, burrowing my face into the gritty dirt._

"_Then you will continue until I tell you to stop, boy. Are we understood?"_

"_You're not my father." My words are cut short as he presses down harder. Dirt clogs my nose, my mouth, until breathing becomes a trial. This man will kill me. Does it matter anymore?_

"_Then I shall be your God. You're already bowing in submission, aren't you boy?" I'm one with the earth, sinking into its folds. "Well? Am I your God?"_

"_You are nothing." At that, I'm flying, lifted on the wings of his strength. He lifts my torn feet from the ground, his fist clenched into the back of my blood stained tunic. _

"_As are you, boy. We're all nothing until we make ourselves something. Do you want to be more than nothing?"_

"_I want them to be nothing!" Those thrice accursed heathens. I'll grind them into the dust. Konstantinos laughs whole heartedly, dropping me on my rump. _

"_Pick yourself up, lad. Would your father be proud of his son, wallowing in the mud and glaring at the world? We kill and we are killed. That is the world, so glare if you like, but it won't change." Konstantinos holds his hand out for me, a beacon of kindness. I brush him away and stand on my own. The man grins broadly._

"_Aye, that's the way of things. You fall alone and you pick yourself up alone."_

"_But you pushed me!" I cry indignantly, loathing the childish pitch of my voice compared to his deep rumbling strength._

"_Then you must learn to keep your ground. I won't be the first to push you down, son, but you're only really down if-"_

"_If you stay down." I chant the familiar mantra duly. Father must have said it a thousand times when we sparred. _

"_So get up already," he barks, even though I'm standing. "Get up and get going. There are miles to cover before nightfall." He doesn't wait to see if I'll follow. I watch him moving, steady and sure, boots still shining. I don't think anyone can knock down a man like that._

_I retrieve Excalibur, she wails in my grasp, the ruby embedded into her hilt glistens like a single, crimson tear. Glistens like revenge, but there it will remain. I lift my eyes to the path ahead; pick myself up out of the mud and vindictiveness._

_I take one step forward, followed by another, and another, and too many to count. _

And pictures of Guinevere fill in the gaps of my memory unbidden. Flashes of the Woad bodies, soulless and empty, we left strewn across the snowy earth filter in through the chinks where time has eroded the details of the past. I search for the pulse beating beneath my skin; Woad and Roman, Briton and Rome thudding in my breast.

I close my eyes and stitch Guinevere into the darkness. I can feel her silken hair beneath my fingertips, smell her fierce pride, taste her scarred skin still softened with love. What would she tell me now? Would she support my crusade? Even as I ask myself these things I know the answer. She would have me to what is correct, regardless the danger, but what of my men? Do I not owe them as much, if not more, than Seraphina and her father? They have saved me more times than can be counted. I cannot fail them now.

"Am I doing right? Is this your plan, Father?" I peer into the husky hued Heavens, the deep violet giving way to sluggish dawn, as though expecting to see my savior's face painted there beside my lover's.

"He doesn't answer." Seraphina's wispy words are acrid. She comes to stand beside me, her sooty eyes feverish in the dim light and her hair snarled with tangles. She looks positively feral. I've spent so many hours digging for any resemblance between Seraphina and her father only to turn away empty handed every time.

"I prefer to think we aren't listening." Her lips twist in an indecent sneer.

"We're all deaf, dumb, and blind. Why would he give a rat's ass about us?" I raise one eyebrow at her crude language, but refrain from commenting. Now is not the time to lecture on manners. I understand her anger.

"We are God's children. Do you not believe that?" I search her expression, plowing through the jungle of human passion, for truth. She shrouds her eyes in darkness. Her shoulders rise and fall softly when she sighs.

"I don't know what to believe anymore, Artorius. Please do not expect anything from me."

"What would I expect?" Seraphina meets my gaze steadfastly for once. Her lashes flutter daintily, seeming to whisper unheard words and sorrows.

"My father. I cannot be him, not now, perhaps not ever. And if this-" She waves her hands dismissively towards the unaware Saxon camp, "is all for some debt you feel you have with my father, he is dead, and the dead do not expect payment. You are free." Seraphina's decree touches my heart. I could walk away from this, return to Guinevere, and bless my men with the freedom they have always deserved. Looking at the young girl next to me, stumbling blindly into a world she's never known, I know that nothing is ever simple. Lancelot is right when he that says my tender heart will be the death of us all.

"Seraphina." I unsheathe Excalibur and place it at her feet. She stares at the sword with unabashed awe and confusion. "My sword is yours whenever the occasion should arise. As am I. Death does not change your father's deeds and as his daughter my loyalty is passed to you." I bow respectfully to the child Princessa only to feel her timid hand lift my chin.

"Never bow to me, Artorius," she sighs warily. "We are already expected to kneel before fate." Seraphina lets her hand fall from its cautious resting place upon my cheek. With a simple nod, she departs gracefully. In that moment I'm gazing upon a queen. We have a long way to walk, but I have faith that the final destination will be worth a few pairs of bloodied feet.

* * *

**A/N: **Aw, Galahad's becoming her BFF. And yup, I threw in some Arthur POV. He's just such chivalroug guy...but no one's perfect, right *wink foreshadow wink*. R&R&enjoy lovelies.

**RebeccaS: **Oodles and noodles of thanks for your reviews. I'm glad you liked chp. 6, it was one of my favorite to write as well. Pft, who wouldn't bite Lancelot if they had the chance? haha.


	8. Chapter 8

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing that you happen to recognize. Just pieces of plot and Sera, but no knights. Personally, I say I got the rotten end of this bargain.

* * *

"_In these matters the only certainty is that nothing is certain."_

_-Pliny the Elder_

**EIGHT**

~Seraphina~

The mountain must be crumbling beneath us. My ears are flooded with a sound like that of an avalanche or the groomsmen of the Apocalypse thundering forth on their fiery stallions, the steamy brush of sour air on my face exuded from their hellish nostrils. Either way, I keep my eyes securely shut. Feverish sleep impresses upon me, rebelling against my sensibilities. Why have I awoken anyways? No light seeps under my stitched lids, confirming my belief that day has yet to break. We've been sojourning to the peak of these majestic mountains for two days, catching snippets of slumber whenever the treacherous path became wide enough for a man to lay out straight.

I uncurl my aching legs. Since Galahad's incident, none of us have wanted to run the risk of riding atop the skittish horses on this unstable ground. It's difficult to breathe when every gasp tears through my dry throat. Try as I might, slumber eludes my flailing grasp. An acute discomfort worries my heightened sense of awareness, yet I still can't force myself to locate the source of aggravation. My mind is still fuzzy with fleeting dreams slipping away like water from a bottomless cup. I'm left with the bitter aftertaste, unable to steady my thoughts or arrange them into some form of coherence.

I roll over onto my side, trying to scramble away from the raging noise of the Apocalypse. My body brushes against something hot and solid. Beyond rational thought I nestle closer to the unknown thing, embracing the heat that kisses my frostbitten skin. My fingers, clumsy with stupor, curl around something tough, yet soft. I press my face into the warmth, overcome with the comforting scent of leather. A new fever ensconces me and I long to be swallowed by the sweltering perfection. There's a different sound penetrating my ears, a frantic beating that seems oddly intimate.

Have I died? After everything I've been forced to survive, is fate playing a cruel trick by letting me slip away peacefully in my sleep? The idea makes me giggle lazily. My lips brush against something blissfully smooth as the sound escapes me, more of a lethargic sigh than anything else. A saltiness clings to my mouth. Shouldn't Heaven be sweet? And if this is Hell, why isn't the fire biting me?

My heart flutters hopefully as a thought blossoms in the depths of my mind, a wish I've been careful not to utter until now. If this is death, are they here as well? Will I open my eyes to their welcoming smiles? My family…

Holding my breath, I lift the veil of my eyelids. I search through the thick darkness that swallows me at first. From black to a blinding white, I gasp in surprise. This is Heaven. I've made it, despite everything, and even my demons seem to have disappeared. I lift my head an inch or so and the sweet whiteness morphs into something else.

I find myself lost in a pair of profound eyes the color of simmering coal. Slowly, and excruciatingly, they melt away the dreamy haze cloaking my thoughts. This is not death. Lancelot is no angel. I gaze at him speechless, still befuddled. My arms and legs are thrown around him carelessly. Our bodies are enmeshed and I'm too lost to be ashamed. Lancelot's jaw is pulled into a taught, weary line, but his pale lips are quirked curiously, a cocky arch in his eyebrows. It's that arrogant expression, tainted with an unconcealed desire, which reminds me of myself.

My cheeks burn as I fumblingly untangle my limbs from Lancelot. I scamper away, only to crash into another mammoth form. Bors pauses in his snoring just long enough to grunt an incomprehensible name and sling a crushing arm over my chest. To my mortification, Lancelot grins at my predicament as I struggle to push away Bors's dead weight.

Lancelot pushes himself up onto one elbow after enjoying my situation for a bit. Easily, he lifts the giant knight's arm and drops it unceremoniously onto his vibrating chest. I suck in a deep breath thankfully, only to force it back out in a shocked gasp. Lancelot crouches before me, resting one finger over my slightly parted lips. His eyes twinkle merrily. I watch as he stands fluidly and begins to walk away with cautiously quiet steps. He glances over his shoulder, beckoning for me to follow with a short wave of his hand, before disappearing around a craggy bend.

Wondering if this is all still a dream, I clamber to my feet on shaky legs and trail after him with not even half as much grace. I stumble over Gawain's limp form and hurry past before he can wake up. Lancelot doesn't want us to be followed. That much is obvious. I blunder along through the dark, clinging to the wall at my back for fear of slipping, as my insecurities take control. What could he possibly want? I swallow hard at the unmistakable hunger in his eye. If Lancelot's rethought my previous offer I know I'll go through with it. Arthur's story hasn't shaken my determination. So my father would not have wanted me to avenge him, this has become my own justice. Although it hurts to know I've become a disgrace to his memory, I see no other option. It is either kill or be killed by my own hate.

After a moment of stumbling, I'm falling backwards, the rock giving way to an open space. A rough hand muffles the automatic scream that rises in my throat.

"Hush girl," Lancelot growls, his breath hot on my ear. Once sure that I'm calm, he releases me from his hold and I tumble forwards, barely catching myself. I hear him moving about in the gloom, completely blind until a sputtering flame erupts. Lancelot places the makeshift torch in the crack between two boulders. The incandescent light illuminates his intimidating form. I'm drawn to the light. Or perhaps I'm drawn to the man.

Taking in my surroundings as best I can, I realize he's brought me to an open mouthed cave. My footsteps echo boundlessly into the depths and a tingle of fear arises at the unknown expanse of this cavern. It could lead straight into the heart of these ancient mountains. Moisture trickles down the ridged walls, splashing melodically against the stone floor. Is this the place where I'll lose my virtue? On a cold tapestry made from pebbles and ice and a single torch to reveal my sins? I look at Lancelot expectantly, waiting like a tightly sprung coil and expecting the worst.

I take a nervous step backwards when he unsheathes one of his swords. For a moment, he holds the blade to the inconsistent light with a tender expression I wouldn't have thought him capable of donning. With a reluctant sigh, Lancelot tosses the sword at my feet, where it clatters harshly. I stare down at the dangerous tool unsure as to what he wants me to do.

"Pick it up, girl. It won't bite if you're careful." Still dubious, I wrap my quivering hands around the metal hilt. The weight of his sword curves my spine at an awkward angle, but I manage to lift it, trying to mimic the stance Alex taught me as a child. Only we fought with light branches then. Lancelot shakes his head disdainfully and crosses the short distance between us.

"Stand tall." He pushes his hand against the middle of my back and applies pressure until I'm ramrod straight. Then he wrenches my shoulders, which are hunched in to my chest, into a proportioned line. Lancelot circles around me, his eyes narrowed analytically as he continues to make adjustments to my pose. He kicks my feet apart, nearly unbalancing me, yanks my head up by the jerking the ends of my hair, and rearranges my hands on the hilt. Until he finally seems satisfied. My arms shake violently.

"Steady," Lancelot barks. I press my lips together grimly and endeavor to hold the sword accordingly. Lancelot leans back, crossing his arms over his broad chest, and watches. We stay this way as the minutes tick by. I urge myself on, even though my arms burn. Sweat beads along my forehead from the effort and all the while Lancelot gazes at my struggle impassively. It isn't very long before my strength fails. He catches the sword before the blade can touch the ground.

"Again," he orders. His arrogant tone causes my blood to boil as I take the sword once more, but let it hang limply at my side.

"I said again," Lancelot rumbles threateningly. My monster's lash out with claw and tooth fury.

"Why?" I hiss. "Who are you to bark orders, Sir?" In the blink of an eye, Lancelot tosses me effortlessly against the damp wall, one hand placed firmly on either side of my head. He glowers down at me with enough outrage to silence any further retorts.

"I am your teacher and as my pupil you will obey my barked orders without any of that cheek. Is that clear, girl?" Regardless the situation, a slow smile creeps across my lips as comprehension rings clear.

"But why now?" I blurt. "Have you rethought my…um…"

"Your proposition?" Lancelot finishes, his voice taunting. My heart races as his left hand moves to brush my neck just slightly. "Save your innocence for someone else," he whispers. "I have my own deal for you." Lancelot steps back and I breathe freely.

"And your terms?" I ask hesitantly, skeptical as to whether or not I want to hear them.

"I will train you on one condition. You must come to Hadrian's wall with us."

"But that's pointless!" I cry. "I might as well not learn a thing if I can't go after those bloody Saxons." Lancelot seems amused by my indignation. I flinch as he reaches his hand towards me once more, but the man only laughs, the sound filling our dank cave with twisted humor.

"Peace, my lady," he says in a mocking tone. Aware that he hasn't addressed my arguments, I hold my tongue in check, knowing only too well that these knights are as hard headed as men come. Lancelot directs this conversation at his own pace and my only choice is to follow behind. After all, I don't want to make him change his mind about training me, just about going with them to the wall.

Lancelot beckons me and when I move no closer he pulls me to his side by the collar of my tunic with a muttered curse.

"Do you see?" His stable fingers trace nearly invisible patterns carved into the slimy, rock wall. They seem to brighten under his unusually tender touch.

"I don't understand what cave drawings have to do with anything," I huff, although still mesmerized by his fingers reading the ancient story in the sputtering light. I lean in closer, squinting to make sense of the pictures, and failing miserably. They're a mystery, much like the man tracing their secrets.

"These were here long before Rome's occupation and when the Saxons nation was still learning to crawl. They are the true history of this land, not written in scrolls by the victorious, but etched with careful devotion by the hands of Briton's founders."

"Beautiful story," I grumble sarcastically. Lancelot ignores my sour jabs. He turns those somber eyes to me once more, roiling with some emotion I do not understand; a cousin to adoration or grudging respect.

"I've been shackled to this country." His voice is resonant, like a finely tuned harp with only one string broken to mar the perfect harmony.

"I have never seen you limp, Sir Knight. Your bonds must be exceptionally light." A smile flickers briefly across his face.

"Ah, maybe my gait appears lively now. There was a time I could hardly walk. You learn to live with your chains." I cast my glance away.

"And if you are unable to learn?" Lancelot doesn't answer, but I don't know if it's because he can't or he just won't. "I don't want to cope with my burden, Lancelot. I know going after the Saxons means my death, although you think me a naïve fool. This is the path I've chosen."

"And it is the one I would as well." His confession sends me reeling. I go to rest my hand upon his arm until I realize that it's still clutching onto his sword.

"What keeps you from doing so? Why don't you fight them, fight Rome?" The desperation in my voice crackles. Lancelot sighs and when he speaks his voice is devoid of the previous openness.

"My loyalty to Arthur outweighs personal vendettas." He cups my cheek in his hand, tracing his thumb along my jaw line. "I wear my shackle for Arthur. Rebelling against Rome would be just as much a death wish as taking on the Saxon army alone, but I have someone to live for; Arthur and my brother knights."

"I have no one," I state. Lancelot nods sadly, drawing his hand away.

"No one to tame the demons. No one to subdue the gnawing desire for revenge. Yes, I understand, and I will teach you."

"But I must still go with you to the wall," I say sharper than intended.

"It is all I ask in return. Come with us, let Arthur believe he has saved you, and the moment you are out of his care I will personally direct you on the right path to find your Saxons."

"You mean me to give Arthur a false sense of security," I say knowingly. Understanding dawns blood red in my mind. We both know this will end in my demise, while Arthur has made it his mission to rescue me. By asking him to train me, I've also asked him to betray his commander. Deep down I know that I should refuse his offer. I can already see Lancelot's internal confliction. This treachery will destroy him.

"It will not be your blade to take my last breath," I whisper in an attempt to lessen the blame. Lancelot is not to be won over by cheap logic.

"Arthur will not see it that way."

"I would still go, with or without your aide." My words are futile. They mean nothing to him. Momentarily, I see Lancelot for all that he is; misplaced.

"Do you accept my terms?" Lancelot retrieves a dagger from his belt and pricks the tip of his finger. A welling of deep crimson bubbles from the spring of his body as he holds his dagger out to me. Even as I order myself not to take it, I'm picking the fateful object from his hand. I press the point of the blade against my fingertip until it breaks the skin.

"Arthur never has to know," I whisper, trying to convince myself now. Yet as we force our fingers together, Lancelot crushing my hand in his grasp, I must fight back the urge to vomit and run from him and this pact. The damp air clings to our skin as our blood intermingles in an ancient, unbreakable oath. Shadows leap wildly all around us, wailing and moaning, as the cave is infiltrated by the curse of our dark promise.

Lancelot is the first to break our connection. His eyes are blank.

"We begin tomorrow," he informs apathetically, while retrieving his sword from my hand. "Tell no one or Saxons and Woads will be the least of your problems, my lady."

Lancelot leaves me with his less than subtle threat and the spluttering torch. I stare at my finger in wonder. The tiny prick has already begun to clot and I marvel at how so miniscule a wound can outweigh all others I've attained.

What have I done now?

* * *

**A/N: **Well, this chapter is by far my shortest. I won't be able to update for a few days, so I decided to go ahead and put this up. Short, yet pivotal :D

**devilpup12: **I hope I can manage to keep this story headed in that "awesome" direction.

**rebeccaS: **Ahhh. I'm so glad to hear you like Sera. I've got this Mary-Sue phobia, haha. And about turning out like her father, I'm not so sure that will happen exactly, but she does change her ideas in the next few chapters. Also, the Lancelot-Sera drama only gets better from here!!

**PiscesWeb25: **Hello and welcome. Thanks for your review! I'm glad you enjoy my messed-up little tale.

**And to anyone else who has read...you're purty awesome yourselves.**


	9. Chapter 9

**DISCLAIMER: **La-de-do-da-day. I don't own a single thing. Not even adorable Galahad, how sad. My disclaimer kind of rhymes. I realize how lame I am...sometimes :D haha.

* * *

"_Learning is not attained by chance, _

_it must be sought for with ardor and attended to with diligence."_

_-Abigail Adams_

**NINE**

~Seraphina~

"Come at me."

"Excuse me?"

"With your sword, girl!" Lancelot stands calmly with his feet shoulder width apart and one of his swords balanced lightly in his hand. He watches me lazily, just a flash of impatience in his fathomless eyes.

These past few days have dragged on interminably. After safely arriving upon flat land once more, leaving the perilous mountains behind us, Arthur has been keeping us at a manic pace. We set out before daybreak and ride long after the sun has settled beyond the horizon to rest. I never realized how separated from civilization my family and I truly were until now. Galahad tells me Hadrian's wall is still a good ways to go and speed is not our main goal. Arthur has given Tristan full reign of our route. The scout leads us on a wild disarray of detours and backtracking to ensure any Woads have a challenge tracking us.

As for the Saxons, they managed to pull ahead of us while we were scrambling through the mountains. They're moving at a much quicker pace than us, but Tristan is careful that we keep our distance. It takes all of my restraint not to go after them. My pact with Lancelot barely keeps me here and practicality doesn't ease my desire either. I'm a hopeless fighter. I couldn't kill a lame bunny rabbit with my skill, but revenge is not prone to be rational. Exhaustion only throws in an extra blow to my increasing insanity.

Every night, just as sweet slumber calls my name, Lancelot shakes me rudely awake. His training routine has proven to be grueling. I never expected it to be easy, but I'm a bit peeved my improvement is hardly visible after this endless week. What hope have I of killing so much as one Saxon? Even if it took us years to reach the wall I'd be no more prepared. If only my mind and body were in agreement with one another. They bicker constantly; my aching muscles screaming for release and my mind begging for vengeance. Every damned moment is turmoil.

I squeal in surprise as the flat of Lancelot's blade raps sharply against my arm. The receding pain drags me from my bitter thoughts. To think I felt guilty for this man.

"You'll be dead within seconds," he snarls. "Stay centered or-" I lunge forward without warning. Lancelot brushes away my blow like he would an irritating insect. With a twist of his wrist he disarms me. I stumble face first into the slushy ground. Lancelot yanks me to my feet by the back of my tunic and shoves the sword into my hands once more.

"Don't lose your balance," he reprimands. How many times have I heard him say that? It's always 'keep your balance, keep your focus, keep your eyes on your opponent, keep your calm'. The only thing I manage to keep is my temper. Or maybe I should say it keeps a pretty firm grip on me.

"Come again and watch your feet."

"How am I supposed to watch my feet when I'm supposed to be watching you?" I cry in frustration. Lancelot simply smirks and nods for me to try again. I grit my teeth, lower my eyes to the ground, and leap forward erratically. Lancelot side steps before I can take both of us down. He crouches over me with a look of utter disdain.

"Do you see what you're doing wrong?"

"I see an arrogant, pig-headed excuse for a knight," I growl, rolling over onto my hands and knees and forcing myself up once more. Lancelot pushes me back down onto my knees, holding me by the shoulders.

"What was that? I couldn't quite hear you," he leers.

"I said-" I'm cut off by a quick blow to the gut, not hard enough to do real damage, but more than enough to hurt like hell. I double over, clutching my stomach, and lift my narrowed eyes to glare at Lancelot.

"You will show me respect," he states firmly.

"Would you have me kiss the hem of your cloak, oh great knight?" Lancelot smirks and I swallow in trepidation. I've grown quite accustomed with that particular smirk, cold as ice.

"Twenty half cuts," Lancelot orders with a little too much enthusiasm. I cringe inwardly at the now familiar command. Standing with as much dignity as I can muster, I grasp the sword with both hands, my palms facing each other. Lancelot clucks his tongue and slides them an inch or so further apart. I place my feet together and, keeping my arms bent, lift the sword over my head with the blade arrowed directly behind me. I take a short step forward with my left foot and cut the blade downwards in front of me. My arms tremble as the clumsy motion comes to a halt at my waist. My breathing is ragged.

"Nineteen more to go," Lancelot taunts. I repeat the exercise ten more times, each attempt sloppier than the last. By the thirteenth, I've ceased breathing all together. Lancelot notices and thumps me hard on the back, knocking air into my lungs.

"Any more witty remarks, my lady?" Lancelot asks sardonically. I bite back the urge to slice him in half. It isn't like I'd be successful anyways. At the seventeenth half cut my sweaty palms lose purchase on the sword. My arms fall limply at my sides as I stare venomously at the fallen weapon. Lancelot towers over me menacingly.

"Tired, my lady? Giving up already?" His breath is hot and imposing against my face. "I thought you wanted revenge, girl. Or is your family less important now?" With a furious hiss, I push him away and reclaim the sword. Driven by enraged adrenaline, I perform the remaining three cuts. Lancelot gives me no time to recuperate. He stands across from me.

"Attack and try not to fall this time."

"Why don't you tell me what I'm doing wrong!" I snap, pushing my drenched hair out of my eyes. "I very well can't improve if you give me no direction." Lancelot strides to my side and I stiffen automatically in anticipation for a slap to the back of the head. Instead, he slips gracefully into the fighting stance.

"Watch me then and hold your tongue." He lunges poorly, practically leaping with both feet leaving the ground for a moment. The weight of his sword bends him down, but unlike me, he keeps his balance.

"Tell me what was incorrect about that."

"I don't know! It was clumsy." Lancelot scoffs at my answer.

"You move too hastily. When you come forward, lean back with the upper part of your body, while thrusting one foot towards your attacker." He gestures for me to give it another go. This time I fall on my arse instead of my face.

"Don't lean that far! Use your head, girl, and be aware of your body."

"I'm painfully aware of it at the moment," I grumble, rubbing my sore bottom. Lancelot smiles shortly.

"You think you're sore now," he chuckles dryly. "Wait until you've been in battle for days with no respite or until you're surrounded by Saxons. Now try again!" I strike. I fall. I strike again. I fall again. It's a vicious cycle of failure. As I lay collapsed at Lancelot's feet for the hundredth time tonight, my will falters.

"Get up."

"I can't." The words catch in my parched throat.

"I said get up!"

"No! Enough for tonight. I'm done."

"You are finished when I say you are," Lancelot asserts gruffly. My legs wobble beneath me as I stand to face him, both hands defiantly on my hips. I spin on my heels, intending to walk away. Lancelot has other plans.

"Unhand me!" I exclaim as he winds his arm around my waist, pinning me against his chest.

"You're weak," he growls lowly. His words are like kindling to the flare of my temper, ricocheting off of my own hidden insecurities. I hate him for being right.

"And you are not trying."

"I am!" I screech. "But you're not trying to teach me either! This is torture."

"It is nothing compared to what the Saxons will do to you." Lancelot laughs coldly. "They'll tear you apart without a shred of remorse." It becomes too much; the exhaustion and self loathing. I bring my heel up between Lancelot's parted legs. A gust of air hits my ear as he groans and pushes me away angrily. His steady stream of curses chase me as I run. The blood pounding in my ears drowns out all rational thought. I need to be as far away from Lancelot as possible.

His black stallion snorts as I swing into the saddle and yank the reigns. The horse rears back, emitting a shrill whinny, before galloping forward powerfully.

"Sera?" Galahad leaps to his feet, his eyes wide in alarm. I ignore the young knight as we canter out of hearing range. The night embraces me as I plunge headlong into its encompassing arms.

* * *

~Galahad~

I collide with a fuming Lancelot only a few yards from camp. He wastes no time on explanations before grabbing me roughly by the collar. I've never seen such fury in his eyes before, at least not outside the battlefield, and it's more than a little disconcerting.

"Where is she?" he hisses.

"Gone."

"Gone?"

"You heard him, Lancelot, now let Galahad go," Bors' deep rumble sounds as he jogs to our side. Lancelot releases his grip and mumbles a weak apology, before facing the bulky knight.

"Where?" he snaps. Bors points in the direction I had been running. Lancelot spins around, prepared to give chase, when Bors rests a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"She'll be long gone by now," he grumbles. Lancelot fixes him with a curious stare.

"I'm sure the little princessa hasn't run too far." Reluctantly, I step forward, taking it upon myself to be the bearer of bad news.

"No, but your horse is fast."

"My hor-I'LL KILL HER!" Lancelot's outburst sends me reeling backwards.

"Not if Arthur kills you first," Bors grunts. At the mention of our commander's name, Lancelot's face pales. I grimace sympathetically. Arthur won't be pleased in the least when he learns his second in command let his charge slip away. I stare off into the distance that swallowed Sera. My heart plummets when I realize it's the same direction in which the Saxons lie.

"We have to go after her," I state firmly.

"Arthur is still out with the others. We can't up and leave without letting them know," Bors points out. Oddly enough, he's the one keeping a level head, where as he rarely ever manages to stay rational. I, for one, can't calm the frantic racing of my nervous heart. Sera's out there alone, riding straight to the pits of Hell, while we stand here debating on what to do. Lancelot seems to concur with my unspoken thoughts. Although I'd be willing to bet it has more to do with his fear of Arthur than actual concern for the girl.

"Tristan will follow our trail. That wench can't go two seconds without attracting some kind of danger. She'll be dead if we wait for them to return." Bors frowns, weighing our options. One of us could stay behind to inform the others, but then there'd be one less sword should the occasion call for a fight, and Lancelot is right. If we dally here much longer Sera will stumble into some kind of trouble. I grit my teeth together as my mind is made up.

"I'm going to find her." Before Bors can argue, I whirl around and begin sprinting back to camp where the remaining horses are still tethered to one another. I swing onto my chestnut mare, Vulcan as Sera calls her, and pause when I see Bors and Lancelot jogging towards me. I watch as Bors saddles his own mount and Lancelot takes Tristan's. Our scout won't be pleased when he sees his steed is missing, but his beast is the swiftest, and Lancelot seems willing to face Tristan's wrath rather than Arthur's.

"You've decided to come?" I ask Bors, the faintest note of teasing in my voice. The burly man grumbles, but a crooked smile lightens his broad features.

"Aye, can't have you two blokes gettin' killed for doing something stupid. Plus, I've grown fond of that little girl." Lancelot snorts derisively at Bors' comment, but holds his tongue. He spurs Tristan's horse violently, Bors and I hot on his trail. Wind whips our faces as we follow the clear path Sera's left for us.

"How'd the she-devil get away, anyhow?" Bors shouts over the roaring wind. "Weren't you on look-out?" Lancelot grimaces guiltily.

"She kicked me," he mumbles. I have to strain to hear his reluctant confession. Bors raises an incredulous eyebrow, but I'm the one to voice our confusion.

"Kicked you?"

"Aye," Lancelot mutters. "It was a cheap blow." Realization hits and I'm nearly blown over by Bors' sudden gust of laughter. He slaps his horse's sweat-lathered neck.

"Spunky little chit got the best of you, lad." Lancelot's eyes narrow dangerously. I decide it's best not to join in with Bors' blatant amusement for now, although a slight smile pricks the corner of my lips. Seraphina never ceases to amaze me. A new thought brushes aside my brief good humor.

"Why were the two of you so far from camp?" Instead of answering my question, Lancelot digs his boot into the poor mare's ribs and races ahead of us. Bors shrugs his shoulders.

"At least she's got both her arms," Bors says, referring to Lancelot's one-armed prostitute. I shake my head in exasperation. Something tells me they weren't out for a midnight tumble. Lancelot isn't that foolish and Sera isn't the type. However, the true meaning for their wandering is beyond me. Neither of the pair tries to hide their disdain for one another. By the quick glimpse of Sera's face I managed to catch, it was clear she was fuming. Lancelot's mood wasn't any sweeter. They've been fighting again, but what could have occurred to send her tromping off on her own in the dead of night?

"Galahad!" Bors' warning nearly comes too late. I barely manage to roll sideways, dodging the swing of a heavy axe. Vulcan serves as a shield between me and my unknown attacker as I cling to her side, my fingers twisted in the saddle. I hear the clank of metal on metal. The sound catches Lancelot's attention and he wheels around, galloping back to us. As I struggle to lift myself straight into the saddle once more, a second attacker makes himself known. His blue tinted skin glows in the moonlight as he grabs a handful of my hair, trying to pull me to the ground. I try to unsheathe my sword, but my arms are pinned at an awkward angle and it takes all of my concentration not to be dragged down by the Woad warrior.

My mind clicks into battle mood. Instinct floods through my body and I give way. With a quick twist of my arm, I wrap Vulcan's reigns around the Woad's thick neck. He releases his hold on me when I shove the heel of my boot into Vulcan's ribs, urging her to move faster. The Woad quickly loses his fleet footing. The reigns snap as I finally readjust in the saddle. My attacker's furious cries are chocked by the leather tightening around his throat as he's dragged behind us. The Woad's already painted face turns a darker shade of blue. He tears at the reigns with desperate fingers until his body grows limp, grating through the snow lifelessly. I wrap my arms around Vulcan's slippery neck and whisper in her folded back ears until she steadies into an even trot.

Bors and Lancelot are finishing off the other Woad. I watch indifferently as Lancelot crosses his swords around the man's waist and slices through his torso effortlessly, just as Bors brings his axe down hard into the Woad's skull with a sickening thud. He falls to the ground in pieces. Lancelot wipes the foreign blood from his forehead with the back of his arm, a look of disgust beneath the crimson mask. I cut lose the Woad still chained to my horse with a swift blow, releasing Vulcan of the dead weight before cantering to my fellow knights.

"Think we over did it a bit," Bors grunts, although his bemused grin suggests he's quite pleased with his work. Lancelot doesn't acknowledge us as he leaps on to Tristan's mare once more.

"Woads aren't supposed to be here," he snaps. His eyebrows are knit together in consternation.

"They could be tracking us?" I suggest.

"Tristan would have known," Bors argues. I decide now is not the time to argue. Tristan may be an excellent scout, but even he can miss things. The Woads are slippery bastards and, with his attention centered on the Saxon army marching ahead of us, it isn't so far fetched he'd be oblivious to a few Woad trackers. The thing that bothers me most is why did they attack us now? Did Merlin send more of his men to capture Sera? Lancelot and I exchange brief glances. I can see my own worries reflected across his face.

"Two of them," Lancelot mumbles, taking in the two broken bodies. "It was a suicide mission. Merlin knows better than to send such a small force against us."

"They could be rogues," Bors proposes.

"Or a distraction," I hiss, my gut clenching at the thought. Lancelot nods brusquely. Every minute we waste here trying to solve this mystery is another minute Sera might not have. I twist my fingers in Vulcan's mane, using the silky threads as a replacement for my lost reigns, and let out a forceful cry. Vulcan prances forward, Lancelot close on our heels. I only bother looking back once to see Bors ride purposefully over the Woad I killed. His steed's hooves crush the man's skull into the snow. No one will recognize them come morning. I only hope that Sera does not share the same fate.

* * *

~Seraphina~

"Don't look at me at like that. Just because you seem to like him doesn't mean anyone else must." Lancelot's stallion snorts incriminatingly as I stroke his glossy mane. His doleful eyes reflect my own guilty face. Thor, the name I've chosen for Lancelot's dark horse, pushes his snout against my shoulder. I throw my hands in the air and step back.

"Fine, take his side!" Thor paws the muddy ground. He nips at my tunic, clenching a mouthful of fabric between his teeth. My feet slide through the melting snow as the stubborn animal moves backwards, dragging me with him.

"I'm not ready to go yet!" I cry angrily, swatting at Thor. The beast is just as controlling as his master. "I am not a toy to be dragged around! Let me go, you infernal creature!" Thor unclenches his teeth and I land in a heap in front of him. The horse peers down at me with the same imperious gaze his master is so fond of wearing.

"Oh, I know what you're thinking! Poor little Princessa, running away when things get tough again. You're wrong though." Thor blinks. I take it as an argument. "I'm not running away. I'm just…" I scan the empty horizon. My shoulders slump inwards when I realize I've lost against a horse. "You win. I'm a pampered coward who can't handle any of this, but your master doesn't have to be so cruel about it." Thor nuzzles the top of my head, but the reproach in his wide eyes doesn't dim.

"Oh, why do you always have to be right," I sigh as I clamber to my feet once more. "I know your master's risking a lot to teach me. I'm just going to have to grow up, aren't I, Thor?"

"And the first lesson you'd do well to learn is never wander alone in enemy territory." It isn't the horse that answers my rhetorical query. I spin clumsily, caught off guard by the unfamiliar melodic voice. Thor shifts his weight nervously as my fingers tangle in his mane for support. The woman before me is unlike anything I've ever seen before.

It's as though she's bloomed straight from the earth or a broken piece of moonlight that's fallen at my feet. Her startlingly pale hair is twisted in thick braids that twine down her back, sporadic strands dyed indigo. She peers at me with a feral mixture of curiosity and disappointment. I cringe into myself, shrunken with inferiority. The spectral woman slinks closer, her every movement sinuous, like creek water trickling gently across the rocks. Her body isn't quite slender, but there's an appealing sturdiness in her form, and even though she's barely clad, but for a thin strap of leather wrapped around the most private parts of her, I don't find her lack of clothing immodest. The intricate tattoo's hide her nudity. Only flashes of her skin shine with an unbelievable transparency. If I hadn't encountered the Woads once already, I'd think she was a ghost.

"I…I'm not alone," I stutter, willing my voice to cooperate so that my lie will sound more sincere. The Woad woman gazes at the desolate prairie all around us. Her cerulean eyes sparkle as she arches one eyebrow.

"The knights will be here soon."

"Do you mean the one you fled from or those that we're sound asleep back at your little camp?" I'm unable to conceal my shock. How long has this woman been with me?

"I've been following you for some time now, Lady Seraphina."

"I hope I've been entertaining enough." Inch by inch, I search for Thor's reigns behind my back, careful to keep my movements hidden. In the blink of an eye, the wild woman swings the bow from her back, and an arrow is aimed at my heart.

"My orders were to take you alive." The bow lowers to point at my thigh. "But not in perfect condition, my lady. Please do not force me to harm you." As she slides closer, I'm overwhelmed by Lancelot's voice. Keep your focus. Don't lose your head. I swallow the raw panic bubbling within me and try to remain lucid. My fingers finally find the rough leather of Thor's reigns. I hold my breath and wait for the Woad woman to come closer. I have one chance, and a slim one at that.

"We only wish to help you," the woman states, but the arrow still directed towards me says otherwise. Just as she's close enough to reach out and touch me, I yank Thor's reigns as hard as my strength will allow. The stallion rears, kicking wildly with his forelegs, and knocking the Woad woman's bow from her hands. Without pausing, I swing into the saddle, and spur Thor forward. I don't have to look back to know that she's trailing me. Her eyes burn into my skull, wild with fiery rage, but Thor is swifter than any human, even a Woad. Still, I don't ease the pace until a formidable shadow rises in the near distance.

As we canter to the hazy structure, I realize it's a handful of scattered huts. We've stumbled upon a wayward village, tucked away in this northern nowhere. Hope shines brightly as I steer Thor in the direction of the tiny settlement. Certainly I'll be able to find shelter within civilization. I risk peering over my shoulder, but the Woad woman is nowhere to be seen. Just as we're within feet of the quiet village, Thor panics. I'm thrown from the saddle as he prances nervously, his eyes swirling with fear. I try to reach for the dangling reigns, but he canters out of my range. The silly animal wheels around and begins tramping the way we've just come. I watch his inky shape slip away morosely. Without his solid presence, my center of gravity is shaken.

I know the Woad woman is somewhere behind me, gaining ground with every moment I stand here like the fool Lancelot is so quick to categorize me as. I sprint the remaining few yards towards the cluster of huts. In the dark, I count fifteen of the ramshackle shelters. Who would care to call this place home? There's no protection, no wall, and no guards that I can spot. My heart thuds wildly against my rib cage, as though trying to break free, as I weave through the compacted, makeshift streets in between the faulty houses. My cries for help are left unanswered, devoured by the thick silence weighing heavily in the air.

I skid to a halt in what seems to be some primitive form of a village square, an open square of muddy ground. The sight that greets my eyes knocks me to my knees. I kneel before a mound of smoldering ashes, still giving off a faint radiation of heat. In the heart of the blackened pile, a charred body dangles upon a glinting, iron pike. I'm unable to determine whether the unfortunate victim is male, female, old, or young. In death it does not matter. A strangled whimper slips past my trembling lips in place of a prayer I can't find the courage to utter. I recognize this brutality, it's in my very bones; the despair and finality. Nothing left behind. Nothing to salvage. No one to bear this sorrow. Perhaps it's better for these poor villagers.

"Saxons," the Woad woman hisses. She slinks from the shadows between two of the empty huts. The indifference on her impish face makes my stomach curl. How can she bear witness to such atrocity unflinchingly? These ashes were once people; living, breathing creatures that loved, mourned, and struggled to survive in an uncaring world. I round on the vile Woad viciously, unashamed by the bitter tears streaming along my cheeks.

"Have you no soul?" I cry. The woman doesn't flinch. She kicks aside a burnt log. Or is it an arm? I double over as the sour flood of vomit becomes too potent to keep in.

"I have a mission."

"Missions?" I snarl, craning my bent head to glare at the shocking woman. She doesn't frighten me now. How could she? With the dregs of war at my back, what is one warrior to a thousand devils? "Arthur's mission, your mission, the knight's last mission! They mean nothing! Whose mission was it to save these people! People born on your precious soil." The Woad is unimpressed by my wailing. She simply shrugs her sturdy shoulders.

"Casualties of war," she states apathetically.

"What war?"

"The one building all around us." She sniffs the air as though she can smell war on the wind, sizzling on the backburner of our minds. I can feel it encroaching in on us at all sides. How could I have been so blind before?

"I won't go with you," I declare firmly, straightening to my full height, which I'm pleased to discover is a good few inches taller than the heathen woman. However the short sword in her steady hand gives her a much more powerful advantage. Once more, I shuffle through the lessons Lancelot has tried to batter into my mind. Focus. Focus. Keep your gaze level, mind clear. I can't let my anger become a distraction. The Woad woman's intentions flicker across her cerulean eyes. Her muscles seem to simmer beneath her pale skin, boiling up to an attack. There's one thing Lancelot never told me during our handful of sessions. Sometimes foolishness is the only chance you have.

"Tell Merlin that I have a mission of my own to complete." And I lunge forward in the same motion I couldn't master earlier tonight. I reign in my adrenaline until it becomes my friend, rather than my enemy. My fingers move clumsily, yet still with speed, to Tristan's dagger tucked with the folds of my tunic. I use my body as a weapon, throwing it full force into the smaller woman. I know she won't dare strike in the confusion. Her orders are to bring me to Merlin alive, not with a sword through my gut.

We collapse in a muddled mess of limbs. I feel the blade of Tristan's dagger slice through flesh as I lash out wildly. The woman tries to overpower me, but I can see the wary look in her eyes. She's afraid of hurting me and that fear is the only thing keeping me from being taken. We roll through the ashes. They clog my nose and mouth, cake my skin, and sting my eyes. An unexpected left hand hook sends me soaring. Blood is thick in my mouth. My head spins on an axis of pain and momentary confusion. By the time I regain my senses, the woman is pinning me to the ashy ground with the tip of her short sword grazing my esophagus. Yet her expression is just as blank as before. I see the slender line of crimson upon her cheek from Tristan's dagger.

"Your mother would be proud," she sighs lightly. Her words strike me harder than any fist. My mother? I'm tempted to pry, but the opportunity is cut short. A lone hawk swoops down between us, pecking furiously at the woman's impassive face. Within another moment her weight is lifted from my body. Tristan tosses the Woad aside carelessly. He glances my way once and the cold fury in his eyes makes me cringe. He doesn't waste his breath with words. The Woad woman is already pouncing.

I'm fascinated by the scene. The two opponents are matched perfectly, step for step. They dance with primitive footwork, at times pressed so closely together they could be mistaken for lovers rather than enemies. Neither of their blades ever graces the other's skin. Tristan twirls. The Woad catches his blow. Her eyes sparkle with an odd light, so nearly resembling excitement. Tristan remains grim, but the corner of his lips tweak into a barely noticeable grin. I fear this will go on forever, when Tristan's sword finally strikes the woman's forearm. She gasps as her weapon falls with a defeated thud. Tristan balances the tip of his blade at the hollow between her collar bones. They drink each other in, showing no signs of emotion.

At last, Tristan kicks the woman's sword into her reach and nods for her to retrieve it. She does so, her eyes never leaving his.

"Well met," she admits stoically, returning her weapon to its place in her leather belt. "To die by the hand of a Sarmatian knight will be an honor." I'm irked by the sarcasm in her cool voice. Tristan lowers his sword, but it remains a threat at his side.

"I never kill my messengers," he growls. "Tell Merlin that the girl is in Arthur's care. If he as any qualms, he is more than welcome to an audience with my commander." I don't think I've ever heard Tristan say so much at one time. The Woad inclines her head in a barely perceptible nod. Her tangled braids sweep over her shoulder.

"As you wish." Before another word can be exchanged, the woman is soaring swiftly past us. Her feet kick up a cloud of ash and she's gone by the time it clears. I hear the faint hoot of an owl before silence settles once more. Tristan crouches beside me. His scrutinizing gaze is disconcerting. I flinch as he brushes a thumb across my cheek, drawing his hand back to reveal a few dots of deep crimson. His eyes flicker to the dagger clutched within my white-knuckled grip. I cry out in an incomprehensible protest when he easily twists my only security out of my hand. He studies the blood on the blade and nods, as though in approval.

"Good girl," he grunts, surprising me. Reluctantly, I take the hand he offers me, my own legs suddenly too precarious to be of much use. Tristan steadies me with a firm hand. The ash tickles my skin and makes me itch. Every inch of me is covered with death. Tristan scans the destruction. We're smack in the middle, just below the poor thing skewered on the iron pike. With a swift motion, Tristan cuts down the charred body. Bits of it crumble upon impact with the ground. I turn away in disgust.

"How did you know where to find me?" I stammer, chasing after the stealthy scout as he begins to check the area.

"I didn't," he grunts, kicking down one of the weak doors to the closest hut. I bite back another onslaught of tears as I peer into the emptiness. The faint scent of bread and dirt assault my nose. There's a basket at the foot of a single mattress, overflowing with blankets, and the unmistakable imprint of a tiny babe left in the covers.

"Arthur sent me ahead to scout out the Saxon trail. He'll be here soon." I swallow hard. Explaining this to Arthur isn't something I look forward to. I'm not nearly brave enough to even think of facing Lancelot.

"That woman, the Woad, she's been trailing me."

"Since we entered the mountains."

"You knew?" I gasp. Tristan peers at me with a subtle amusement.

"I've been keeping an eye on them."

"And you didn't tell me!"

"Why should I?" I'm frozen in place for a moment, shell shocked by his blatant dismissal, before rushing to catch up with the scout at another of the huts.

"I have a right to know. It's my safety at risk for one th-"

"If you were worried about your safety, Lady, you would not have run off." Tristan's sharp reprimand causes my cheeks to flush with chagrin. I sink into myself, my pride lowered a notch, and fall into step behind Tristan. He pauses at one of the huts, his lips drawn tight, as he holds out an arm to keep me from approaching closer. There's no need for him to bust down the door to this particular house. It's already smashed to splinters. I'm about to ask what we're waiting for when my ears prick at a muffled scuffle within.

"Stay," Tristan orders. As he slips out of sight, lost in the abandoned hut, a prickle of discomfort rises in the back of my mind. I'm not fond of being left here alone. Ignoring the scout's command, and knowing that I'll probably regret it, I slink into the hut behind him.

"Told you to wait," Tristan grumbles, without so much as glancing at me.

"I didn't-Oh!" My eyes narrow in on the tiny form crouched at Tristan's feet. The little girl is curled into herself, fiery hair falling into her panicked umber eyes. Her perfectly oval face, once chubby, but narrowed by poor nutrition, is brown with dirt. I recoil when her blank eyes center upon me. She can't be much older than Helena…than Helena was. Tristan bends over her, his expression clearly uncomfortable. Dealing with children is a delicate situation and Tristan is far from being a delicate man.

"What's your name, girl?" he asks, trying to soften his words. The child's gaze never falters from my face. My skin crawls under her ancient inspection.

"Eoforhild," she whispers. Tristan hisses and takes a step back.

"Saxon," he curses. I look from him to the child. There's something unnerving in the girl's calm demeanor. I could have guessed where she was from even if Tristan hadn't confirmed my beliefs. There's a coldness about her that I'm far too familiar with. She's one of their bastards.

"Go outside," Tristan murmurs, his voice steely with determination. I see his fist tighten around the hilt of his sword and I know what he intends to do. I should stop him. After all, Saxon or no, she's just a child. Instead, I retreat with my head lowered in shame. I don't want to save her. The girl will only grow into my enemy. I slump into the side of the hut and press my palms flat against my ears, waiting for the childish screams I've heard once before.

Instead I hear the trump of racing footsteps. Lancelot materializes and our eyes lock from across the sea of ash. I expect him to lop my head off. His anger hits me before he does. My body clenches instinctually, but there's no cause for defense. Lancelot grasps my face in his rough hands.

"You're alive," he whispers, as though not sure whether or not to believe it. Before I can get a word in edgewise, I'm being smothered in his unbreakable embrace. Relief seeps from his body into mine. I understand the relief isn't directed to the fact that I'm alive. Lancelot's satisfied knowing that Arthur will be satisfied. I'm no more important to him than he is to me, but it's nice to have someone to hold onto, if only for a brief instance. All too soon he's drawing away.

"You're alive and now I can kill you myself," Lancelot snaps, all his anger returning ten-fold.

"Not if I have anything to say about it."

"Arthur!" Lancelot spins on his heels. If we were anywhere else, I'd be amused by the guilt melting across his normally cocky features as his commander strides towards us, the rest of the knights struggling to keep his pace.

"Where's Tristan?" Arthur barks.

"In there," I answer quickly, stunned by his brusque tone. I've never seen Arthur so uncontrolled before. "We…we found a Saxon girl and Tristan is-" Lancelot curses darkly before pushing past me and ducking into the hut. Arthur hot on his heels, thunder in his emerald eyes. Galahad catches me before I can fall. His relief is all for me, but I don't give myself another moment to relish in it.

"Sera!" he cries in frustration as I slip out of his grasp and follow the other two into the hut. Just in time to see Arthur landing a solid punch in the dead center of his scout's openly shocked face. Suddenly it seems as if the world is spinning the wrong way.

* * *

**rebeccaS: **I have mega-big plans for Sera and Lancelot, but I've decided to make a sequel to this story because the finale is going to be a bit [well much more than a bit actually] of a cliff hanger. Concerning your Galahad/Lancelot/Sera worries, I've never been a big fan of love triangles, so there will most definitely NOT be on in this story. I DO have huge plans for Galahad, but they'll probably occur early on in the sequel as well. I'm kind of setting him up for the role he'll play later on in this story :D By the way, I love your reviews. They make me smile.

**devilpup12: **HAHA. Well, I sure did update soon. ENJOY!

**A/N: **So, it's 1:03 in the AM and I'm leaving for Charleston in the mourn. I should be packing, but I started writing...again...and well, this story has become a bit of an obsession. Join the madness by R&R. I really really like to hear the reader's opinion. It keeps me on track when I start to frazzle into wild tangents and such. Adieu for now, duckies. May you wait in anticipation for the next chapter...it's pretty crazy if I may say so myself.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing you recognize D:

* * *

"_The test of the morality of a society is what it does for its children."_

_-Dietrich Bonhoeffer_

**TEN**

~Lancelot~

I'm torn between logic and conscience. Tristan's hand trembles uncharacteristically as he balances the child's life in his palm. One movement, a single breath, could save or condemn us. In this life there is no room for second guesses. Tristan is plagued with them now, as am I. I've never witnessed the man, always distant and hard, face an enemy he could not strike down. If this girl is even an enemy. She stares into the distance, glassy eyed, unconcerned by the blade aiming for her young heart.

"Tristan," I murmur, unable to say what must be said. The scout glances over his shoulder with knowing amber eyes, hard as flint. Arthur is already striding across the floor. The time for action is now. If he means to kill the girl, his opportunity is trickling away. My heart slows with the seconds. The child blinks twice and she finds Arthur; a messenger from Heaven or Hell with sparks of rage shooting from his emerald eyes. I have never witnessed a sight as frightening.

Then time finds its rightful speed once more as Arthur lashes out, his curled fist colliding with Tristan's openly appalled face, whipping any last traces of assurance from the scout's expression. A soft gasp pulls my gaze towards the doorway where Seraphina stands frozen, her eyes wide enough to reflect my own disbelief. Behind her, the other knights have gathered, like a flock come to witness a stoning. No one moves. I'm not sure if we breathe. Tristan swipes his free hand over his lips and stares at the blood glistening upon his fingers. His own blood, drawn by Arthur's hand, and still pouring from Tristan's nose like a flood.

"Drop your sword," Arthur dictates icily. Tristan lets his weapon clatter to the dusty floor. It rests between him and our commander like a barrier neither of them is prepared to cross.

"She is a Saxon," the scout states, his words muffled by the blood still spilling across his face. In fifteen long years, not once has Arthur struck a single one of us, whether it was warranted or not.

"It makes no difference," Arthur snaps.

"But it makes every difference, Artorius," Tristan argues boldly. I understand his logic, at least the warrior within me does and not the man. Saxons are not above using children for their own devilish purposes. An innocent life can be used for destruction. Why else would they have left the little thing behind, if not to for some devious ploy? Saxons, the fiends, raise their bastards from their very first breaths to become as cold blooded as their adults. They're taught to lie, steal, kill, and spy before they even learn to crawl. It is the way of their people. Yet, if I had been the first to find the child, instead of Tristan, would I have been able to end her life on a generalization? Blood I have spilled, but never such an innocent's.

Arthur retrieves Tristan's sword, removing the scout's temptation. I have never seen our commander in such a temper before. Tristan's familiar composure is cracking at the seams under Arthur's unconcealed disgust.

"She must die," Tristan declares. If I hadn't known him for the better half of my life, I would have missed the tremor in his voice. Arthur throws his sword and I'm forced to side step as the heavy thing hit's the wall directly behind where I'd stood only moments before. Was Arthur's aim intentional or accidental? I'm loathe to believe it's the first of the two.

"YOU ARE A MAN, TRISTAN! NOT A MONSTER!" Arthur's roar causes the unstable ceiling above us to shake. Dust rains upon us.

"I am a soldier," Tristan retorts in a resigned manner.

"Then do not think to act without first approving your actions through your commander!" I can see Tristan chafe against the blatant display of authority. Are we truly free in Arthur's eyes? Moments after asking myself this ever present question, one that I always fid myself stumbling into, I know the answer. Arthur is trying to save us, trying to save the world, and it's too much for one man alone. He won't allow Tristan to dirty his already soiled soul with a death that might condemn him further than all the others. Killing a child…it is the deed of monsters as Arthur so poetically pointed out.

Tristan's fists are balled tightly at his sides, the only visible sign of strain, but he ducks his head submissively. I feel as though I've witnessed a public lashing and turn away, ashamed to see my fellow knight kicked into order like a common dog. Arthur's intentions are bred out of love, but Tristan's might be as well. He would protect us from a threat, anything that may later bring us harm. The two men are fighting the same war and are unable to agree upon the best plan of action. Tristan will not fight. He is too steadfast a follower, but I catch the flash of resentment in his eyes as he lifts his head once more. There is a rift.

Without being formally dismissed, the defeated scout departs, pushing past Seraphina and the men with his own form of dignity. Beaten, but never broken. Arthur's anger dims into a simmering hiss as he kneels before the cause of all this turmoil. It's difficult to believe something so small, so delicate, could spark a war. She peaks up at Arthur with unabashed curiosity, clear of any fear. Something tells me she has seen worse things before.

"Child," he says hoarsely, reaching out a hesitant hand towards the coiled girl. She allows him to place his palm upon the top of her fiery head.

"Eoforhild." Seraphina's meek comment is barely audible. "That is her name."

"Has she said anything else?" Arthur barks. Seraphina's face pales further at his brusque tone. He's never spoken to her with anything short of courtesy. For the first time, I'm aware of the blood splattered across her face and the soot ringing her eyes. Seraphina shakes her head viciously and Arthur releases her of his stony glare. I catch the subtle motion of Galahad resting his hand upon her shoulder reaffirmingly. For the time being, I can't rise myself to be upset with her. She looks more helpless than the Saxon child, obviously waiting to be torn apart like Tristan. She's a weak creature; contradictory to the core as she tries to pretend at bravery, yet runs away at a few harsh words. I almost long to go to her now.

Arthur lifts the child, Eoforhild, into his arms and strides briskly across the room. He stops in front of Seraphina, holding Eoforhild out to her, but the Princessa simply stares at him blankly.

"Take her," Arthur orders. Seraphina flinches noticeably, but doesn't lift her arms to relieve Arthur of his burden.

"I…I cannot." She fumbles over the words. Her eyes flicker to me, searching for help. I can only guess at the forces keeping her from taking the child and guessing is never good enough.

"TAKE HER, DAMN IT!" Seraphina stumbles into Galahad. The young knight straightens defensively, his youthful face livid.

"Arthur-" he begins. Our commander cuts off his protests by passing Eoforhild to Gawain instead.

"Go, all of you. Check for survivors, salvage any provisions you can," he lists his orders. "I must speak with Lancelot in private." None of the men dare argue. They trickle back out into the night. Bors shoots me one last sympathetic glance, Seraphina drifts behind them with her head bowed as she refuses to meet my eyes, and Gawain holds the child as though she were something highly dangerous. I miss them as soon as they're gone, left alone with the trepidation of facing Arthur on my own.

"I can explain, Arthur." He rounds on me swiftly, one eyebrow raised in dark curiosity.

"Oh, please do. I anticipate your slick words, Lancelot. What fantastic story will you concoct to appease your unjust commander?" Anything I may have been prepared to say seems unfit now. I can't tell him a single thing without ruining myself. Should I tell him Seraphina overpowered me with her cheap maneuver and fled, he would still want to know what made her go in the first place, and nothing will make me come clean about our secret lessons. I peer down at my feet in defeat.

"I am disappointed, Lancelot. Of all my men I expected you to have more sense."

"I've never been very sensible, Arthur." He laughs humorlessly.

"On the contrary, you are never at a loss for rationality. Aren't you constantly reprimanding me for following my heart when I should be listening to my mind?" I don't risk answering his question. Instead, I tread in another, just as dangerous, direction.

"I let her slip away, Arthur. We fell into a spat. I warned you that I should not be the one to protect her."

"Perhaps I misjudged your capabilities." His disapproval is a jab to the gut. I live to make this man proud, as though he were my own father. I have never wished to lie to him or go against his trust. What kind of man have I become?

"It will not happen again." I promise humbly. Arthur turns away from me. His shoulders slump, but his voice remains firm.

"For some inexplicable reason I'll take your word for it."

Maybe it his God whispering secrets into his ear, but I could swear he sees past my flimsy disguise. Does he see the traitor within me? Either way, my lies are apparent. Arthur knows there is something I am keeping from him. A divide falls between us, one that I long to tear down with my bare hands, Seraphina be damned. I nearly forget why I've gone back on my word to Arthur for her sake anyways. It's clear she isn't prepared for the kind of aide I have to offer. I'm wasting my time in futile efforts to train her and all the while letting Arthur's trust in me deteriorate.

"Tristan-" I begin cautiously, broaching the topic delicately. Arthur leans against the post of a bed frame, hacked to pieces now, and waves one hand dismissively. Bereft of his passionate fury, he seems shrunken. I find myself looking away, withering with guilt. Now is my opportunity to come clean. Perhaps he'll understand Seraphina's need to fight.

"I did not handle things well, did I, Lancelot?"

"It is not my place to judge. We are only human, after all." Arthur scans the destruction around us sorrowfully.

"Would he have killed the child?" he asks suddenly, troubled eyes blazing. Tristan's sword is discarded behind me.

"I am sure he would have done what he felt was right."

"Right?" Arthur sneers uncharacteristically.

"Tristan is a man of reason. He does not allow himself to be blinded by sympathy."

"And you, Lancelot?" I shift uncomfortably under his questioning gaze. Not too long ago I would have left Seraphina to die. Deciphering foe from friend is a task that is never finished. A simple misguided judgment in character, a soft heart, and you become vulnerable to the enemy. It is safer to take no risks. I know this.

"I would not have done it," I admit. For I also know that there are some risks that must be taken. "My life is at stake every day, Saxon spawn or no." Arthur nods, relief apparent upon his stern face. I cross the room and grip his forearm firmly, forcing myself not to flinch as I meet his eyes.

"I am with you. We are all with you, Artorius." Even Tristan, I add unspoken. "Any fool-hardy mission your gracious heart leads you to, we will stand at your side. Perhaps not merrily, but there none the less." There is no doubting the sincerity of my declaration. We will not fall apart here at the end. Arthur squeezes my shoulder, unuttered understanding joining us together.

"I should not have lost my temper with you, friend. I know you would never purposefully place Seraphina in harms way." I cringe inwardly as he pinpoints my treachery with precise accuracy. Arthur, for once, in oblivious. It only ignites my shame further.

"Aye, but I only received the lesser blow. Tristan was the unlucky recipient of your outburst." Arthur grimaces and flexes his hand.

"He won't be happy with me," my commander groans.

"But he'll understand." Speak of the Devil; the stealthy scout appears in the doorway, all of his silent self-control returned. Arthur retrieves Tristan's sword and studies the breathtaking artistry of the blade before tossing it to the scout.

"Use it wisely," Arthur states evenly. Tristan allows himself to crack the slightest hint of a grin, or perhaps I'm mistaking a grimace. Deftly, he sheathes the sword and jerks his head in the direction of Arthur's fist.

"When you strike, sweep upwards as opposed to straight. It breaks the nose." Tristan taps the side of his own mottled nose. His advice is not haughty, if anything it's the closest to an apology the scout will ever bring himself to make.

"I shall keep that in mind. How goes the search?"

"All dead," Tristan informs without remorse. I release a pent-up breath as we slip back into the normal routine of things.

"I feared as much. The Saxons will wipe out every village from here to the wall."

"Luckily those are few," I grunt. No one in their right mind would care to live this far from the protection of Rome. Much as I loathe them, they provide some stability for the people of this land.

"What of provisions?"

"Scarce. There were a few horses in the stable. The Princessa is taking one for her own." It seems as if a small inconvenience has been lifted from my shoulders. At least some good will come of this mess. I will no longer be forced to share my mount. It could be quite a distraction. Something about Tristan's edgy stance tells me there is more than provisions and survivors on his mind. Arthur senses it as well.

"There is more?" he asks. Tristan nods briskly. His shaggy hair shadows his eyes menacingly.

"The lady is being trailed by Woads, one woman in particular." At the mention of the blue devils, I remember our own encounter with the savages.

"Aye, we ran across two of their kind," I confess.

"They made another attempt to take the Princessa. She fought bravely, but had I not intervened-" There's no need to explain further. Fought bravely? I smoother a bout of bitter laughter at Tristan's statement. I'm surprised she didn't just flee again. It seems to be her trademark.

"I sent her attacker away with a message to Merlin."

"Message?" Arthur pries.

"That the Princessa is under your protection and if he has any complaints, he can drag his blue arse here and speak them himself without all of this nonsense." Tristan's bluntness brings a brittle grin to my lips, as well as Arthur's.

"I'm sure he'll be pleased," I snort. Arthur runs a hand through his dark hair.

"I shall speak to Guinevere when we return. Perhaps she has some insight into Merlin's interest in Seraphina. Until then, we worry about bringing her safely to the wall. Mysteries can wait." I nod my agreement. After a moment of silence, Arthur turns his glance upon me and Tristan.

"We shall leave shortly. There is nothing to salvage here." With those words, Arthur ducks out of the hut, Tristan side stepping to make way. I feel uncomfortable standing alone with the quiet scout, yet something keeps me here.

"Work on her balance. She's as likely to bowl herself over as any opponent." My heart sputters in a panic as my head shoots up, but Tristan has already slipped away. I stare at the empty space he inhibited not moments before, unable to grasp the meaning of his words. Could he possibly know of our secret lessons? What other reason would he have for making such a comment?

And if Tristan has discovered my betrayal, how long will it be until Arthur finds out as well?

* * *

~Seraphina~

Gawain studies me closely as I pace from stall to stall, scanning each animal with a practiced eye. I envelop myself in the scent of damp hay and dung. It's pleasant in its familiarity, where all else is frighteningly new. My boots click along the roughly hewn stone floor and outside the stables I can hear the other knights calling to one another.

Choose a horse, Galahad ordered before rushing off and leaving me in his companion's hands reluctantly. Of all men, Gawain is not the one I care to keep me company now. Actually, I'd prefer to be alone. The gentle snort of the poor, timid animals is like a calm reassurance. I pause at the last stall and my breath catches in my chest as I peer inside to a majestic palomino. The beast's coat gleams golden in the faint tendrils of rosy dawn brushing his pelt. His warm eyes seem to beckon me closer.

I climb onto the gate, balancing precariously with one hand, while offering the other to the palomino. His mane and tail are pure white, matching the diamond between his eyes. Distrustfully, he bumps his snout against my open palm. The little hairs upon his face tickle my skin and he shies back into the corner when I emit a wispy giggle.

"I won't harm you," I speak softly. Gradually, he returns. His strong muscles tense as I stroke his neck, yet my soothing words of endearment subdues his suspicions. After a bit, he nuzzles the crook of my arm.

"What will you name this one?" Gawain asks, just a pinch of brittle sarcasm. I don't shift my eyes from the horse, _my_ horse as of now.

"Mithras. God of light." Gawain grunts and I take it as an approval.

"He's a bit skittish," the blonde knight criticizes.

"Give him time."

"We don't have time." Both of us turn to see Lancelot leaning against a stall further down, his arms crossed, and his expression lazy. I'm not fooled by his ease. The crease in his brow testifies to the strain he tries to disguise.

"Gawain, if you'd be so kind as to give me a moment with the lady." I turn away to hide my trepidation. As if enough hasn't occurred this night, and now I must deal with Lancelot. Although I already know what I'm going to say, it doesn't lessen the unease. Gawain glances curiously between us before shrugging in forfeit.

"Aye, Galahad's been on his own for too long. I should probably make sure he hasn't gone and done something hot headed." Lancelot grins as Gawain thumps him on the back in passing, a silent gesture of brotherhood.

"Don't let her slip away again," he mutters, ducking out of sight before Lancelot can retaliate to the underhanded remark. I flush guiltily and focus upon Mithras once more. Even he can sense my nervous energy. I feel Lancelot step up behind me, too close.

"Good choice," he states lightly. I don't let my guard down, even though his tone is seemingly calm.

"What will we do with the others?" I ask with honest interest.

"Set them free. Appealing, isn't it, freedom?"

"I'm beginning to think it doesn't exist." Lancelot rests his hand upon my waist and spins me around easily. I avert my eyes, staring at the cobble stones beneath our feet as though they were the most intriguing things in the world. They've been worn smooth by a number of passing feet. I can feel the heat of Lancelot's intense gaze warming my face. Until at last I cannot bear his silence any longer.

"I'm sorry," I whisper weakly.

"Never apologize," he murmurs.

"But I've been wrong. Lancelot, I am not as blind as you think. I know that it pains you to keep secrets from Arthur, yet I begged you to train me regardless. Then, after just a week, I give up. You were right to call me weak." Lancelot listens to my blustered apology patiently. When I'm finished, he cups my cheek in his hand and gives me no other choice but to look into his searing eyes.

"Are you giving up?" His voice is so low I can feel it vibrating within my chest.

"I…Well; I figured you wouldn't teach me anymore. Not after-" Lancelot presses a finger to my lips, sealing off my fumbling.

"I am a man of my word, Princessa. We have a deal. That is, if you are willing to continue." I can only manage a nod. This goes beyond revenge for just my family. This is _my _mission, not to extract vengeance, but to be the voice for casualties of war. Whether they are heaps of ash or those left behind like me. We are victims, not sad stories to be overlooked as the unavoidable results of war. Saxons, Woads, and Romans; they play their own game, moving us along like expendable pawns in a game of territorial chess. My purpose is grander than the quest for power, freedom, or even revenge. My mission is to bring peace to those struck by the injustice of battle. If that means I must take on every Saxon, Roman, or Woad then so be it.

Lancelot's hand slides from my cheek to my neck. He traces the line of my jaw with his thumb. My breathing hitches as he lowers his lips to my forehead chastely. My skin catches fire and I stumble backwards, intimidated by his advance, innocent as it may be. Lancelot quirks an eyebrow, obviously amused by my startled reaction.

"I thought you'd be…well, shouldn't you be royally pissed off?" Lancelot throws his head back, laughing wholeheartedly.

"I've wanted to wring your scrawny neck all night, but now I find myself too exhausted to do anything of the sort. We can fight tomorrow if you like?" His wistful smirk makes my heart sputter.

"It's probably unavoidable," I sigh, leaning back against Mithras' stall. Lancelot lifts his arm to scratch the back of his neck. I catch him wincing and I notice the long gash traveling down his forearm. I wrap my hand around his wrist and straighten his arm out so that I can inspect the wound better.

"You're hurt," I gasp, pushing up his sleeve.

"It's barely a scratch."

"Even a scratch can become infected," I snap irately. "You should have Dagonet look at this."

"He's busy enough without tending to petty scrapes. Besides, you make a far prettier physician." To my disappointment, I feel my face flame from his cheeky remark and I deign not to reply. Instead, I run my finger lightly along his wound. It isn't deep, just barely breaking the skin.

"Am I mistaken, or are you truly concerned for my wellbeing, lady?" I don't miss the humorous note in Lancelot's voice. He traps my hand in his much larger one, bringing a halt to my fretting. "I was under the impression you loathed me."

"You're my teacher. I don't want you maimed before I can learn everything there is to know." I yelp when Lancelot steps closer, pinning me to the stable wall. He tucks a strand of air behind my ear, letting his touch linger a bit too long to be considered proper.

"There is much I could teach you, Princessa," he chuckles quietly. I can't clear my mind long enough to concoct a witty remark. Lancelot dips his head so that our lips are mere inches apart. We're breathing one another's air and I find myself dizzied. I'm unsure whether I'd like him to kiss me or not. The instinctual part of me, the one which I have no control over, screams for his touch. Yet reason warns me to put an end to his game. Desire wins out as Lancelot teasingly places a swift kiss at the corner of my mouth.

I rest my palms flat against his chest, trying and failing to find a purchase on his smooth breast plate. Lancelot grazes his lips across mine. My knees give way and if it were not for his arm wrapped possessively around my waist I would have fallen for what would have been probably the hundredth time tonight. Lancelot nibbles my bottom lip playfully. I inhale sharply, my mouth parting in surprise, and he takes the opportunity to sweep into me. His kiss becomes hungrier as I struggle to stay conscious. This is nothing like our previous union. I'm not frightened, only unsure. Lancelot teases me mercilessly until instincts I never realized were in my possession reveal themselves timidly. My arms twist around his neck as I boldly draw him closer. I delight in the texture of his unruly curls tangled in my trembling fingers. For a sweet moment I'm able to forget everything else.

All too soon the spell is broken. We part, startled, at the sound of someone clearing their throat nearby. Bors' unmistakable girth takes up much of the open entrance. He smirks as I clumsily unwind myself from around Lancelot, who is aggravatingly nonplussed.

"Look at the lass!" Bors bellows. "She's 'bout as red as Gilly's arse after a beating." Lancelot glances at me, a pleased smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth. I'd like to slap it right off, but think better of it. Cocky bastard.

"Is there a reason you interrupted us?" Lancelot asks. Bors snorts in amusement.

"Aye, your bloody stallion just showed up and-"

"Just showed up?" Any trace of good humor melts from his dark features. I curse myself for forgetting about Thor. Lancelot turns an accusing glare in my direction. I'm not sure if it's much of an improvement from the smug smirk.

"About that…"I begin ruefully. "I may have accidentally lost him."

"LOST HIM!" Lancelot roars, stepping towards me threateningly. Bors intervenes, placing his solid form between us.

"It doesn't matter. Your damned beast is back and Arthur's ready to leave. I wouldn't keep him waiting if you want to keep your face intact, pretty boy." Lancelot tosses me one last mutinous glare before spinning on his heels and retreating from the stables.

"You sure do know how to ruin the moment," I grumble to Bors. The large knight slaps my shoulder and laughs buoyantly.

"Probably for the best, lass. We've got enough problems as it is. Don't want any little Lancelot's running around to muck things up some more."

"Wha…I wouldn't…" Bors waves away my weak arguments.

"You're not the first to fall for the tricky bastard, girl. Just watch your back, alright?" He doesn't give me a chance to argue before leaving as well. I slump into the wall. Mithras pushes against my shoulder. I pat him absently, my mind elsewhere.

"What am I doing, Mithras?" I mumble, almost expecting him to answer. If the horse knows any better than myself what just occurred, then he decides to play coy and keep his wisdom to himself.

"Men," I curse. "Idiots, the lot of them."

* * *

**devilpup12: **Aw, I don't think my writing has ever been described as phenomenal before. Trust me, after reading that last review, I walked around with this goofy smile for about an hour. People must have thought I was an escaped loon.

**rebeccaS: **Buddy boy, I loooove writing Lancelot-Sera training scenes :D As for the sequel, it isn't exactly going to be "focused" on Galahad...cough, cough...can't say much about it though. And I promise not to leave you hanging long at all. Considering I'm posting slower than I'm writing, I'll probably already be a good ways into making the sequel by the time I'm finished putting all the chapters up for this one.

**PiscesWeb25: **HAHA. We had no trouble with the traffic considering we've been walking for three days straight. I'm glad you think I'm doing a good job with the characters. I really like to give them each special attention, but it gets difficult. By the way, I wouldn't suggest punching Gawain. He probabaly wouldn't take it very well...O.O

**A/N: **Well, this chapter isn't really mindblowing. Sorry guys. I forgot to mention earlier, but the woad woman who fought with Tristan is someone you should remember. I've got big plans for her, but not so much in this story. Last, BUT NOT LEAST, thanks to those of you who read, review, or whatever. I really, really enjoy hearing your opinions. Ask questions, give advice, possibly support. I swear I won't bite!


	11. Chapter 11

**DISCLAIER: **Own nothing...tired of having to admit it.

* * *

"_Look for the ridiculous in everything_

_and you will find it."_

_-Jules Renard_

**ELEVEN**

~Lancelot~

"When we reach the wall I'm going to drink until I can't piss straight," Bors declares, squinting into his flask of ale. "No more of this watered down mead." He downs the remaining few swallows, the very last of our stock. We're running low on everything, not just ale. We prepared for a quick scouting trip, not a rescue mission through this forsaken wilderness. Our provisions will be gone within the next two weeks. Arthur is rationing everything; a slice of bread smaller than the Saxon bastard's fist, frozen meat if we're lucky. We're hungry, tired, and tensions are high.

"What'd you think that little birdie tastes like?" Bors ponders, eyeing Tristan's hawk perched just a branch or two out of our catching range.

"Chicken perhaps," Gawain mutters wistfully. Bors closes his eyes and sniffs the air, as though he can smell roasted peasant and sweet wine. His ample stomach growls rebelliously.

"Here birdie, birdie," Gawain coos, lifting his hand to the hawk. "We won't bite."

"We'll swallow your feathered ass whole," Bors grunts, a mutinous glint in his eyes. I stand aside, not bothering to restrain them or offer assistance. A little entertainment is more than welcome. I watch as Gawain clambers onto the lowest bout of branches, stretching his arm desperately towards the hawk that eludes his grasp just as stealthily as his master. Bors lumbers below them, hands ready to catch his dinner. Gawain's fingers find a purchase in the poor creature's tail feathers. The hawk screeches indignantly, but my fellow knight's look as though they've found the Holy Grail. As Gawain pulls the squealing bird down, an arrow whizzes past my left side and lodges firmly in the sleeve of his tunic, pinning him to the tree trunk.

Bors leaps around, sword drawn, his face that of the Devil's, while Gawain releases the hawk in shock and tugs uselessly at his sleeve. Both men blanch when Tristan steps into view, his bow still at the ready.

"Bloody hell, mate! You could have killed me," Gawain cries. Tristan merely shrugs and whistles for his hawk. He soothes the bird's tousled feathers with a surprisingly gentle hand. Gawain manages to dislodge the scout's arrow from the trunk to free himself. He leaps to the ground, landing in a very feline-like position, and stands beside Bors. Both men glower. I can't contain my laughter any longer.

"What's so funny," Bors snaps.

"The look on your ugly faces," I retort. Before the two of them can pounce on me, Galahad crashes into the small clearing with an over the top battle cry. His sword swinging wildly in front of him and his face bright red. It's enough to send me over the edge. I'm doubled over, laughter rippling through my entire body. Galahad's expression morphs from fiery determination to complete bewilderment.

"Put that thing away before you hurt someone," Gawain barks to the younger man.

"I…I heard yelling. Was there an attack?" Reluctantly, he lets his weapon fall.

"Aye, there was an attack alright, but only Tristan's damned hawk was in danger," I gasp, wiping away the tears of mirth that have collected in the corners of my eyes.

"Your hawk?" Galahad asks, rounding on the quiet scout. Bors' stomach rumbles once more and comprehension dawns on the young man's face.

"You mean I charged through that bloody forest to rescue a stupid hawk from their bellies?" he cries.

"How chivalrous of you, Galahad. Arthur would be proud." The young knight rolls his eyes at my comment and sheathes his sword vehemently.

"I'll let you all die next time," he mutters under his breath before tramping back in the direction he came.

"He's such a sensitive thing, isn't he?" Bors grunts. Galahad's ambush seems to have cleared the air of tension.

"Perhaps there's a reason he's never bedded a woman." We all turn to stare at Tristan, wide-eyed with shock. He shrugs off our disbelief with a cynical grin before slipping away with much more eloquence than can be said of Galahad's departure. The three of us remaining exchange worried glances, all thinking the same thing, until Gawain breaks the unsure moment.

"I'm finding that boy a woman the second we return to the wall," he states adamantly, quelling anything we might have to say on the matter with a threatening glare. I hold up my hands innocently. Tristan was joking. I hope. It's difficult to tell with him.

"Come on, let's get back to camp. I'm starved." Bors rubs his belly.

"That's an understatement, my friend," I chuckle, following them into the forest. Camp isn't but a few yards away. There's no sight of Tristan when we return, but I spot Galahad brooding at the edge of the site. Arthur is pacing, of course, while Dagonet stokes an unwilling fire. Seraphina sits close by him, hunched over with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. She perks up a bit when she sees us approaching. A soft rush of pink colors her cheeks, quickly subdued by the child tugging at her breeches.

The Saxon girl, Eoforhild, latched on to our Princessa quickly. She trips along after Seraphina as though she were her very own mother. In return, Seraphina doesn't bother to hide her irritation. The girl is either oblivious or simply doesn't care. I'm betting on the second option. Eoforhild hasn't spoke to the rest of us, but I can hear her shrill voice spinning on into the long hours as she chatters away in Seraphina's ear. When we join them around the fire, Eoforhild scampers closer to Seraphina's side. The Princessa grimaces. I'd pity her if the situation weren't so amusing.

Our eyes meet through the puffs of smoke resulting from Dagonet's futile efforts to make a fire with the unfit tinder. She blushes once more, but keeps her gaze level stubbornly. Not for the first time since the incident in the stable, I wonder what urged me to kiss her again. I had every intention of beating her to within an inch of her life. Yet the way she looked at me and her blundered apology. I can still feel her gentle fingers tracing the scratch on my arm, her touch an outward expression of a concern I'm unaccustomed to. No woman, excluding perhaps my mother, has ever fretted over my injuries. Seraphina's worry was somehow endearing. When she's not trying to be a cold-hearted warrior, I find that it's difficult to dislike her.

Perhaps my actions were simply from too many days without the pleasure of female company. Galahad is not the only one in need of finding a woman when we reach the wall. A woman and a hearty meal; that's more than enough to satisfy any man. What use do I have of a girl's compassion? It can't sate my needs.

Seraphina smiles timidly. I'm the first to break eye contact. We resume our lessons tonight. Another good argument should clear my head of these silly fantasies. After all, the Princessa is still a menace and her swordsmanship hasn't improved. Much. Oh, who am I trying to fool? She's still a hopeless bumbler, but her determination is moving her in the right direction. She's learning. I think that frightens me more than anything else. Arthur is still pacing. We haven't spoken much since our excursion at the ransacked village. I've been purposefully avoiding him.

Seraphina follows my gaze with a knowing frown. Her smooth brow creases in consternation. She's not quite the little girl she was when we first stumbled upon her. This land has a way of aging people. Yet she retains a childlike quality, the belief that she can change things and make them better. It's Arthur's folly as well. Beneath the jaded façade is hope. For what? I do not know.

"Reign it in, lover boy. Keep gawking at her like that and the men will start to talk. Shameless gossipers, the lot of them, you know," Bors mumbles under his breath. I chuckle lightly, although his observation unnerves me. Am I that painfully obvious? Bors lifts his flask to his lips before remembering it's empty. He breathes a heavy sigh as I focus upon removing an imaginary speck from my armor.

"One thing's certain," Bors continues, gazing at Seraphina peculiarly. "I bet she tastes a hell of a lot better than Tristan's hawk." He shoots me a suggestive glance, a crude smirk dancing across his face.

"That, my friend, is one bet you will never find the answer to," I state, the warning in my tone clear. Bors chuckles good naturedly at my scowl.

"Perk up, Lancelot. I've got enough on my plate with Vanora and twelve-"

"Eleven," I correct.

"Eleven little bastards. The Princessa's all yours."

"She isn't mine," I hiss sharply. Bors shrugs, disregarding my protest. "She's Arthur's charge. I wouldn't dare lay a claim on her."

"Alright, if that's what puts you to sleep at night. Ain't any need to get fussy." I decide it's best to let the conversation end here before I say something I'll regret. It's strange, but for a moment there I felt as though Bors was invading upon my territory. Ridiculous is all it is. She's not a piece of land for me to piss upon and call my own. I have not staked a claim and I never will. Once this journey is done, I will forget the _darling _Princessa ever trespassed upon my life. Until then however...

* * *

~Seraphina~

I've sent Eoforhild to collect more kindling for Dagonet. The child skips lightly around the campsite, animated now that most of the knights are elsewhere. She's careful to keep her distance from Arthur, merely peering over her shoulder at the intimidating Roman from time to time. I watch her bundle sticks into her tattered dress. Eoforhild's copper curls flicker in the brisk wind whistling through the moaning trees. She giggles gleefully as a lone bird soars overhead, following its path with umber eyes that don't miss anything.

A long, winsome sigh escapes me as I turn my back on her. Dagonet graces me with a sympathetic smile. Arthur, although without issuing a direct order, has placed Eoforhild under my care. I'm waiting for motherly instinct to make an appearance, only to be disappointed at every turn. I can't bring myself to touch the girl. I cringe when she clings to me.

Why did she have latch onto me? Is it because I am a woman? That's why Arthur expects me to be her surrogate care taker. I suspect the wily man has other reasons as well. Perhaps it's his way of trying to open my eyes, quelling my revenge. Little does he know that Eoforhild doesn't make me uncomfortable because she's a Saxon, though it doesn't ease the situation. My dislike for Eoforhild runs much deeper than bloodlines.

"I didn't need any more kindling," Dagonet speaks softly.

"But I needed a reprieve. I can't so much as breathe with that little imp pestering me night and day." The gentle knight pauses in his duty. He sits by my side, peering thoughtfully at Eoforhild still tramping along behind us. The look in his eyes is so full of adoration that a lump rises in my throat. It's the look of a father for his daughter. I have not seen it in such a long time now.

"Do you have children, Sir?" I ask boldly. Dagonet continues to follow Eoforhild's every movement, sorrow infiltrating his rugged features.

"There is a boy, Lucan. We rescued him along with Guinevere. You know who Gu-"

"Lancelot informed me of her…" I falter for a moment. "Of her place at Hadrian's Wall."

"Aye, Arthur found his love and I found a son." Dagonet's mournful voice nearly breaks my heart. I rest a comforting hand upon his arm.

"It must be difficult to be so far from him. Will you take him to Sarmatia when you are relieved of duty?"

"If I decide to return," Dagonet states slowly, "Lucan will follow. Children are blessings and curses, my lady. Once they attach themselves to you, they rarely ever stray." Eoforhild smiles brightly when she catches me looking. Suddenly, I feel quite ill.

"It's much the same with you knights and Arthur," I grumble. They were raised together and now they stand by his side through every obstacle. Dagonet chuckles before climbing to his feet once more.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Galahad storm into the clearing. I'm preparing to investigate the cause for his foul temper when Eoforhild races back to the fireside. She dumps a pile of useless twigs at my feet proudly.

"I got 'em all, lady. Even the ones I had to dig for." Her words are difficult to understand at times. It's clear that she struggles with our language. I wonder who taught her to speak our tongue. Are all Saxon children schooled? I've always thought of them as filthy barbarians. They don't seem the type to bother with reading and arithmetic.

Eoforhild scurries back as Dagonet crouches to claim her meek pile of wood. He tosses her a grateful smile, but the child responds by burrowing closer to my side. She fears the knights and after her first encounter with Tristan, I can't honestly blame her. Every time the scout is near, Eoforhild becomes a bundle of nerves and suspicions. I find it highly amusing that she actually hisses at the man, but only loud enough for me to overhear. At times she's more like a wounded beast than a human child.

A clattering breaks the peaceful silence as Bors, Gawain, and Lancelot barge into camp. Lancelot locates me within a single heartbeat. It's something I've noticed he's begun to do lately. Whenever I'm out of his sight, even for just an instant, he has to reassure himself that I'm still here. I'm not sure it's something he's aware of. The flush upon my cheeks, on the other hand, never escapes his notice. Lancelot grins slyly as he settles across from us with the other two knights. Eoforhild places herself directly at my side, her slight body pressed against mine.

I glance cautiously at Lancelot once again. He's locked in conversation with Bors, an irked look on his roguish face. I don't allow myself to wonder what it is they're discussing. It's none of my business. Galahad plops down on the side of me that Eoforhild isn't cowering into. He's certainly a mess. I'm a tad guilty at not having noticed before how wan he's become, with violent circles shadowing his bright eyes. I reach up and brush my fingers through his disheveled curls, trying to pat them into place.

"Your beard is in need of a trim," I tease, tugging at his unruly mane.

"What? You don't think I'm pretty anymore?" Galahad jests, cracking the smile that always warms my heart.

"I'm sure there's a handsome man buried beneath all of that grit."

"We can't all be as good looking as Lancelot." Galahad winks lewdly.

"Aye, and if you all were as arrogant, the Saxons would be the least of my problems." As soon as the words are out of my mouth I realize my folly. I glance at Eoforhild shamefully, but the child seems unaffected by my mention of her kinsfolk. She's too preoccupied regarding the knights vigilantly. In a lowered tone, I change the topic away from Lancelot to a much more pressing issue.

"What of the army, Galahad? Has Tristan reported anything new concerning their path?" The young man's face sobers instantly. I nearly regret bringing up the subject we all would prefer to forget about, but curiosity seers in my veins.

"Nay, they're still moving south, but they seem to have veered to the west a bit, away from the wall."

"That's good!" I cry. Galahad doesn't seem so sure.

"Maybe. It gives me a bad taste though. Arthur was sure they were moving to expand into Rome's hold. This new path…it's odd." Before I can so much as contemplate his disconcerting information, Eoforhild demands my attention by tugging at my cloak. She peers up at me with impossibly wide eyes that make her face appear frighteningly fragile.

"You should not speak with them," she whispers conspiratorially. Her warning surprises me.

"Girl, what are you rambling about now?" I snap, itching under her scrutiny. She peers over my shoulder at Galahad, who is watching our exchange with an amused expression.

"Eadwig told me that all Sarmatian's are cannibals who tear men apart limb from limb and drink their blood like wine." Galahad and I burst into laughter simultaneously, but the girl's face remains perfectly sincere.

"What's so funny?" Bors bellows from across the fire.

"This chit thinks we're cannibals," Galahad replies.

"Aye, and our favorite dish is plump little girlie. Nice and tender, they are." Bors licks his lips as Lancelot elbows him sharply in the ribs. Eoforhild is unimpressed. She peers at the big man disdainfully.

"Don't worry, little one. No one here plans on eating you," Dagonet chimes in reassuringly.

"Wouldn't be so sure of that," Tristan grunts, slinking into sight. He glares daggers at Gawain and Bors. Lancelot erupts into a peal of wild laughter, but I'm at a loss. Deciding it's best not to know, I return my attention to Eoforhild. She tries to smoother a yawn and fails miserably. Her eyelids flutter. It's no wonder she's tired. The itty thing tosses and turns all night long. When I'm not suffering through nightmares of my own, I'm kept awake by her fitfulness.

"Go to sleep, Eoforhild. I promise not to let them nibble on you." Eoforhild gives me a heartbreakingly trusting smile before curling up at my feet. I resist the awful urge to kick her.

I let my eyes sweep across the camp and notice Lancelot following Arthur's steady pacing with unwavering intensity. He must feel the prick from my gaze, because he turns suddenly, locking eyes with me. A shiver runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the chilly weather. My hand rises from my lap, moving to touch my lips where the memory of his unexpected kiss still resides, until I think better of it and clasp my palms together. They're disgustingly sweaty.

I should not have allowed him to make such an advance. Now of all times, it's imperative that I remain focused, and not let my trivial desires cloud my judgment. This is the real world. The Saxons are ravishing the land and its people. How can I allow myself to be distracted from their plight with this folly? Lancelot means nothing. He is a knight and he is my teacher. For that, I have come to respect him. The line is drawn there and I will not be the one to cross it.

* * *

_Helena skips across the endless field, a crown of daisies atop her fair hair. She crashes into me and together we tumble down an emerald slope. Our carefree laughter sings a melody with the rustling, sweet smelling grass. We land in a heap of skirts and twisted limbs. I lift Helena into the air with my knees and she spreads her arms to catch the breeze, like a baby bird. She glows in the soft sunlight._

"_I'm a queen, Sera!" she squeals delightfully. Her wilted crown of flowers is a tiara of diamonds in my eyes. I let her drop gently to the ground next to me. We watch the clouds drift lazily across the expansive sky._

"_I've missed you, Helena," I whisper, bittersweet tears prickling at my eyes. She's here with me again. I take hold of her hand, intent on never letting her go again. Helena squeezes my fingers in a quiet reassurance._

"_I'm always here waiting. Alex is teaching me to ride a horse. He wants you to visit him sometime soon."_

"_I don't know where he is." Helena sits up and peers down at me with sorrowful, blue eyes._

"_We're all right here." She taps my forehead. "And here." She rests her delicate hand over my heart. "As long as you don't forget us."_

"_It hurts to remember." My voice catches in a sob. _

"_Only if you keep fighting us. I don't want to be forgotten, Sera."_

"_I promise to avenge you," I declare. Helena tosses her fair curls over her shoulder as she giggles. She kisses my cheek. Her lips are sticky and warm._

"_I don't want vengeance, sister. I long for peace." Helena leaps to her feet with youthful agility. I watch as she races away, her bare feet soaring over the sea of grass. At the crest of the slope, she stops before another little girl, one with flaming hair and inquisitive umber eyes. Helena links her arm with Eoforhild's. The two of them wave at me, still stranded at the bottom of the hill. Helena blows one last kiss before they vanish down the other side. I can still hear them laughing. Eoforhild is singing a strange tune that I can't understand. They're one in the same; innocent._

I surface from a shallow slumber to someone pinching my cheek. I swipe at the annoyance, thinking it's Eoforhild, but the deep chortle doesn't belong to her.

"Rise and shine, Princessa," Lancelot whispers. By the time I manage to open my eyes, he's already disappearing into the cover of forest. With a groan, I untangle myself from Eoforhild. The child reaches her tiny hand out to find me, but only grasps at thin air. She whimpers a string of foreign words. Fear sounds the same in any language. Briefly, I'm tempted to stay with her. She's so helpless, curling her small body into a tight, protective ball. What has she seen with those wide eyes? My dream is still heavy in my heart.

"Sera?" Galahad's fuzzy voice startles me. I spin quickly to see him propped up on one elbow and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"What're you doing?" he mumbles. He's adorable with the aurora of dreams still clinging to him.

"She reminds me of my sister," I admit, speaking the truth I've been loathe to accept. I can't bare seeing Helena and her trusting expression. It hurts so much to remember, so very much. I crouch down to brush a lock of hair from Eoforhild's milky cheek. Something I must have done a million times with Helena.

"I had a sister as well," Galahad says softly.

"Do you miss her?" I wait for his answer with baited breath. Galahad lays down once more, folds his hands behind his head, and stares up into the small piece of visible sky.

"Every damned day," he mutters ruefully as his eyelids droop closed once more. With one last painful look at Eoforhild, I step lightly to Galahad. I bend down to kiss his troubled brow.

"I miss them too." He stirs slightly, but his breathing is even. I know he's fallen asleep again and I tip toe away from the camp easily. I move in the direction Lancelot departed. Fighting will do me good. It's a much needed distraction.

After what seems like hours, I stumble upon a modest opening in the forest. Lancelot is waiting. His sharp eyes follow my every movement as I step into the clearing. Moonlight floods over us both, drenching my skin like silken silver.

"Took you long enough," Lancelot says disapprovingly. I take the sword he offers. It's still impossibly heavy, but I'm able to hold it steady.

"My sincerest apologies, Sir." My tone is flat. Lancelot cups my chin in his hand firmly and lifts my eyes to his. His touch unnerves me.

"You've been crying again," he states. My eyes must be puffy. I don't even remember the tears. "Don't let it distract you."

"I won't," I snap, breaking from his grasp. I raise my sword and settle into the appropriate battle stance. Lancelot nods his quiet approval before following suit. He's beaten the technique into me a thousand times. We haven't sparred since my miserable failure the night we discovered Eoforhild. I'm ready tonight. Flipping through everything he's taught me in this short time, I inhale deeply. I become aware of my body as a whole being. I nestle my heels into the frozen earth, feeding off of its unshakable existence. Lancelot waits for me to take the first step.

I lunge and a sense of pride rushes to my head when I don't fall. Lancelot dodges my attack with unearthly grace. He swings at my exposed back and I barely manage to block his blow. Our swords clang angrily. I'm stuck in a precarious position with my torso twisted and my feet pointed in the opposite direction. Too late, I realize he's purposefully put me in this stance. I spin, stumbling slightly, and swing my blade over my head to bring it down on him from above. Lancelot is forced to raise his arms to shield his head and for a split second his body is vulnerable. I try to move quick enough to slash his chest, but he's always a step ahead of me. I cry out as he nicks my shoulder with the tip of his sword, just enough to draw blood.

As the trickle of crimson stains my tunic, a renewed flood of adrenaline overwhelms me. Lancelot's gained the advantage. He forces me back until I have no where left to go. In a spur of the moment decision, I toss my weapon around him and drop to my knees as his sword slices through the empty space I was standing moments before. I roll past him, retrieve my sword, and swipe the tip across his broad back. His armor is barely scratched. We continue like this for the longest time.

My arms grow heavy and I find myself losing focus as the fight draws on. In a smooth flick of the wrist, Lancelot knocks my sword aside. I'm left weaponless. Lancelot smirks confidently, but I'm not giving in yet. As he goes to deliver the final, probably painful, blow, I retrieve Tristan's dagger from my belt and slash at the hand that wields his sword. Lancelot falters, surprised at the blood dripping between his fingers. It makes the hilt of his blade slippery. He cocks his head, lifting one eyebrow curiously, and discards his sword.

I return the dagger to its proper place as we circle one another like predators defending our hunting grounds. Lancelot swings his fist in a wide arc, catching my already injured shoulder. Hand to hand combat is not something we've gone over, but practice makes perfect. I rely on pure, animalistic instinct. Lancelot swings again. This time I duck and grab a fistful of his tunic. I bring my knee into his stomach hard. He grunts, but recovers within moments. The breath is knocked from my lungs when he lands a quick blow to my chest. All of his reminders to stay focused and in control are dispelled along with every particle of air in my body.

With a deranged cry, I leap at him, wrapping my legs around his waist. We collapse into a heap on the ground. My fists fly, hitting the cold earth more often than him. Lancelot slams his boot into my spine. He utilizes my moment of agony to pin my wrists together and flip our positions. I push desperately against his chest, trying with all my might to free myself.

"Do you forfeit?" Lancelot growls.

"Never," I spit vehemently. He smirks in response. Perhaps it's just my imagination, but I spot a hint of pride in that smile. I tense in expectation for his next move, prepared for anything…anything other than what he actually does. Lancelot crashes his lips to mine roughly. His mouth is warm and urgent. It drains any desire to fight right out of me. However, the nipping voice in the back of my mind is louder this time than before.

"Get off of me," I mutter, jerking my head to the side. Lancelot chuckles darkly, letting his lips trail along my tense jaw line.

"Forfeit," he orders in a sultry whisper that makes my pulse quicken.

"Unfair tactic," I snap in frustration. It's so difficult to keep my wits about me. I'm clinging weakly to the oath I made myself earlier. This cannot be allowed.

"Nothing is fair in battle." He strokes my side with one steady hand. I'm not strong enough to push him away. I swallow my pride and do what must be done.

"I give up!" The words sting my throat. I'm not sure what to make of Lancelot's expression. It's completely new to me.

"As you wish, my lady." He removes himself and bows slightly. I don't take the hand he offers to help me to my feet as well.

"No more," I declare forcefully, struggling to meet his gaze with confidence when my hands are trembling. Lancelot retrieves his swords and sheathes them. We stand in silence for a moment as I regain control of my breathing.

"You may go then." I bristle at his brusque dismissal, but receive no opportunity to argue.

"No she may not." Tristan steps out of the shadows. I'm not the only one suddenly filled with panic. Lancelot mutters a muffled curse as the scout takes both of us in with his rattling stare.

"We…uh…I was restless. Lancelot offered to walk with me so that I could…um…calm my nerves and such. I know it must look suspicious but-"

"Hush, Sera. He knows," Lancelot grumbles despondently. "Will you tell Arthur?" The two men stare at one another and I seem to drop from the face of the planet as they interlock into an unspoken conversation. My heart thuds through the tension. If Tristan gives us away, Lancelot and Arthur will be ruined, and I'll be the one to blame. I hang my head in shame. It wasn't right of me to drag him into this. I'm waiting for Tristan to deliver our death sentences.

"She needs to learn how to handle a bow as well," Tristan grunts at last, swinging the bow from his back in a fluid motion. "And you rarely shoot straight." Lancelot inspects the scout distrustfully, but I only have room for confusion.

"Does this mean you'll keep our secret?" I blurt.

"It means I'll teach you to fire an arrow." Tristan's straightforward answer confounds me further. The most I've spoken to this man was when he was saving me from that Woad woman.

"Why?" I ask, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. Tristan remains emotionless.

"You have a right to know how to defend yourself."

"And it has nothing to do with spiting Arthur?" Lancelot snarls brashly, stepping in between the scout and me.

"Do not insult me, Lancelot," Tristan replies smoothly. "She will need to know how to protect herself in the time to come. We can't race to her rescue every time."

"I never asked-" Lancelot cuts off my indignant objections with a meaningful wave of his hand.

"You understand that the others must not know."

"I am capable of keeping my silence." I snort at his understatement, slightly irked that I'm not being given a say in this matter concerning _my_ lessons.

"Fine, take her." Lancelot pushes me into Tristan violently before tramping away. "Luck be with you," he cries before vanishing. I pout at his retreating figure like a child, irritated at being tossed around thoughtlessly. Tristan analyzes me coldly. A prickle of fear rises along my spine. I'm not sure I enjoy being left alone with the scout, far from the others, and swallowed in darkness. His very presence disturbs me.

"What say you, lady?" Tristan asks gruffly. My head is still reeling from tonight's events. I concentrate hard on his offer. Inarguably, the scout isn't my favorite of the knights, but I'm fully aware of his skill with the bow. To learn by his instruction would be a gift. And perhaps a curse. Yet if I'm going to fully prepare myself for the future and the path I have chosen, than I know there really is no choice.

I snatch Tristan's bow from his hands brazenly and meet his amber stare. Maybe this is a present from Fate, a sign of encouragement to continue on in the direction I'm headed. Helena wishes for peace, not vengeance. Regardless that it was revealed in a dream, I know her words truly sprang from my own heart. But to acquire peace, I must first conquer chaos.

"Well, are you going to show me how to hold this thing or not?" I snap. Tristan grins imperceptibly. Either that or I've finally lost my mind. These knights, what other surprises do they have in store for me? Next Gawain will be asking for my hand in marriage, Bors will begin fasting, and Arthur will become a drunken skirt chaser.

My first arrow clatters straight to the icy ground.

* * *

**devilpup12: **Ooo. I wouldn't go so far as to stop reading other Lancelot stories. I've stumbled upon a few intriguing portrayals of him around this fanfiction-y site. However, I'm glad you're impressed with my own model.

**rebeccaS: **Three cheers to my other faithful reviewer! haha.

**A/N: **I support reviewing...haha. Seriously, if their are any ghost readers out there, let me know what you like, dislike, things you think could be improved upon. I need a bit of fuel for this story.


	12. Chapter 12

**DISCLAIMER: **You knooooow already.

* * *

"_Everyone has his burden;_

_what counts is how you carry it."_

**TWELVE**

~Guinevere~

I awaken in an empty bed. My fingers trace the indention left behind by Arthur. His smell is fading. It is cold no matter how many furs I wrap around myself. I roll over onto my stomach, face down in the mattress, and burrow into his empty section of the bed we have shared for simple months that seem like lifetimes. I can feel the distance between us tugging at my bereft heart. There are no sweet dreams to be found in this lonesome chamber.

The worn down stone is chilling against the bottom of my bare feet. I do not bother to slip on the dress discarded upon the floor. It is far too constrictive and breathing is already difficult enough. Instead, I wrap one of Arthur's woolen cloaks around my unclad form. The crude fabric irritates my skin, but I do not mind.

I stroll through the empty halls, dimly lit by torches, to the inner courtyard. No one notices me slip through the shadows, taking the roughly hewn stairs to the top of the fort's wall. The sound of carefree laughter is a slap across the face as the tavern door opens. Two drunken soldiers spill out into the dirt street. Vanora trails after them, waving a wooden spoon in her fist menacingly.

"Next time you think to disrupt my business I'll castrate the both of ye." Her strong voice carries to me. I smile in approval at the fiery woman. With Bors constantly sent gods know where on Roman missions, she's left to fend for herself and her eleven children. I admire the older woman, for I am just beginning to understand how challenging this life can be. I have fought in many battles and never once flinched at danger, only to find that doing nothing is my greatest trial yet. It is being left behind without any knowledge of the safety of those you love. I would prefer to face an army of Saxons and according to our scouts that possibility may not be unreasonable.

A messenger arrived just the other day. Bloody and broken, he bravely escaped a Saxon attack upon his village just a few miles from Hadrian's wall. I was there to witness his death. His injuries were beyond hope and the news he bore left an ill omen branded upon the fort. Saxons have never dared venture this close to the wall. I only pray to whatever gods there are that Arthur has not come across them. He was due to return within a week and here it has been nearly a month. We have had no word from them. Each day is a burden as my hope dwindles. I cannot lose him now that we have just found one another.

I lean over the fortress wall, spreading my arms to the darkness, and scan the empty horizon for any sign of approaching horsemen. The majority of my time is spent in this place, always searching. I must be the first to see them return. The icy wind stirs my hair and kisses my face. I close my eyes and hold my breath.

"Come home to me, Arthur," I whisper silently, urging the wind to carry my plea to his ears. He promised me. I remember the day clearly.

"_I will go with you," I state adamantly. Arthur sighs as he runs his fingers through his disheveled hair. He props himself up on one elbow and peers down at me affectionately, but not in defeat. We have had this argument a thousand times since he was issued his last command. Fifteen years my lover has fought with his knights and now they are to be sent on their final journey. Without me._

"_You must stay here, Guinevere."_

"_Do you think I am a child that can be ordered about!" I cry indignantly, sitting up and pulling the blankets around me tightly. Arthur strokes my cheeks with the back of his hand, attempting to ease my anger with gentle touches, but I am not so weak willed. I rear away from his caress and he lets go of the idea of appeasing me with sweet nothings._

"_I do not trust Bishop Germanius," he declares honestly. A shiver races down my spine unbidden as I think of the Roman holy man who has been residing at the fort since before my own arrival. He is a spy for Rome, blatant proof that they no longer trust Arthur as they once did. His presence here makes my skin crawl. Although he always treats me with cold courtesy, I can see the distaste in his flinty eyes. The man is a snake that should be taken care of, but Arthur refuses to take action. He is a man of the church, Arthur's church. Killing him would only create trouble and now that the men are so near their freedom, no one is willing to risk it. Perhaps Tristan will pierce the bastard with a well-placed arrow once he's been given his discharge papers?_

"_I will be more comfortable knowing that you are here to keep an eye on him." Arthur's logic is fool proof and he knows he's won, but I can't resist pressing my luck._

"_But I would be more comfortable at your side." I take Arthur's hand in mine, interlacing our fingers possessively. He is mine. I will not release him easily._

"_I have my men. They will let no harm befall me." His men, the famed Sarmatian knights, and my once enemies. It was they that rescued me from the pits of Marius's rancid dungeons just as life was flitting away from me. I still am not sure whether I trust them with my whole heart. Too many years of bloodshed has left its mark upon us. Yet I do not doubt Arthur and he was just as much my nemesis as the Sarmatians. Perhaps I am drawn to him for the Woad blood that pulses through his veins. He hated me in the beginning. There are times when my insecurity becomes too potent and I fear that our pasts will ruin what we have barely managed to build._

"_What troubles you, Guinevere?" Arthur asks, his eyes overflowing with concern. _

"_Once this mission is complete will you go to Rome?" I meet his gaze unflinchingly, willing for him to tell me the truth. It is a subject that neither of us has been bold enough to broach until now. _

"_It has always been my intention," he replies uncertainly. A silent understanding wraps around us. If he decides upon returning to Rome, taking the power and wealth Bishop Germanius promises will be his, I am unsure as to whether or not I will be able to follow him. They will not accept me in his country. Yet for Arthur to remain here is for him to forfeit everything he has dreamed of achieving. He could become a great man within Rome's territory. He is already legendary. Can I hold him from all of that? Is love worth relinquishing everything both of us have fought for? This land, Briton, is my home. It is my duty, my life's purpose, to free its soil from the greedy hands of those that try to claim our birthright. In this moment, I am reminded of all the odds against Arthur and me. He must see this sorrow upon my face, for he draws me into him._

_I rest my head over his chest, listening to his heart beat. Whatever our race or dreams, our hearts beat the same. Our love is one that never should have come about, but there is not a sword sharp enough that can cut through its ties. I wrap my arms around him, hiding my tears against his skin. We have much to learn of one another. I know of his past, his anger towards my people. By all rights we should be bitter enemies. I do not wish to let him go._

"_Promise me you will come home safely. Do not attempt to be brave or noble, Arthur." Even as I ask this of him, I know it is futile. Arthur will always do as his heart bids him. It is why he saved me. It is why he is a good man and the one I love. Arthur kisses my forehead tenderly and brushes the embarrassing tears from my cheeks._

"_You have my word as well as my heart. I will be back within a week's time and then we may decide where our future shall take us. As long as we go together, Guinevere, I will be content." _

_I tuck his promise into the folds of my soul. It will be the only thing to keep me sane in the long days to come. _

"Fear does not suite you." I'm startled from my memories by Druisten's placid voice. I smile warmly at my companion as he leans against the wall beside me, our arms barely brushing. For as long as my mind can recall, Druisten has been my ever faithful friend. We were raised together in the heart of Briton's thickest forest, trained by the same mentors, and always partners during any battle. I was relieved when he decided to join me at Hadrian's wall, against the wishes of our people. He is the brother I was never blessed to have. I am reassured by the familiarity of his presence; wistful eyes the shade of the far away sea, windswept locks of midnight hair, and prominent cheek bones painted proudly with the designs of our people.

Druisten is unhappy within the confines of Rome's fortress. I have asked him time and time again to leave, but he is a stubborn fool, and always has been. He feels responsible for my being captured by Marius's soldiers and I am unable to relieve him of that grief. He has vowed to never leave my side again. The selfish part of me is glad. I love Arthur with everything in me, but it is nice to have a companion from my old life. He understands my ways better than my lover. Of course there is no contest as to where my loyalties lie when it comes to matters of the heart, Druisten is my dearest friend. He is able to read my expression with such clarity it can be irksome at times, such as now.

"I cannot help but to fear. They should have returned long ago," I sigh. Druisten drapes his arm over my shoulders. I feel like a child again, lost and frightened. It is not something I have felt in years.

"Arthur is more than capable of caring for himself, Guin. Remember, he's probably saving every bloody person in need of help from here to the Saxon border." Something is off in Druisten's reassurance. I turn a sharp eye on him and catch the way he squirms uncomfortably under my scrutiny.

"What are you not telling me?" I ask, harsher than intended. Druisten removes his arm from my shoulder and averts his gaze to the rolling fields stretching out before us.

"It is nothing," he answers vaguely. My temper boils over.

"Nothing!" I cry furiously. "Arthur is somewhere out there, Druisten! If you know something about his lengthened absence, then tell me this moment." He's quiet for an agonizing span of time. His features are screwed up in contemplation as he debates with himself. It takes all of my self control to remain patient, but the effort pays off. Druisten sighs heavily in defeat.

"Merlin has been sending out attack groups," he answers duly.

"Against who?" Druisten looks at me with a look of disgruntled disbelief and comprehension dawns on me like a douse of ice water.

"Not against Arthur!" I protest. "But he gave me his word that no more harm would be directed towards either Arthur or his knights. Surely you have heard incorrectly." Druisten nods his head sadly. I can see that he is not lying.

"I heard the news from Merlin himself."

"When?" I hiss.

"A few days past." I glare into the gloomy forests nearby on the other side of Hadrian's wall.

"He is here," I state with assurance. I can nearly feel the man's spirit in my bones. "Why?"

"To keep an eye on the Saxons. They were headed in this direction-"

"I know that," I interrupt bitterly.

"Did you know that they've suddenly changed their path?" His words shock me. Once the Saxons set their eyes on a goal, they always follow through. I've been preparing for an attack for days now. Why would they alter their course at the last minute? Although these questions create chaos within my mind, other matters stand out with more prominence.

"Take me to Merlin," I order, allowing no room for argument. Druisten knows me well enough to understand that I will not let this go. Merlin has broken his promise to me and I will call him on it.

"Dress yourself first," Druisten says, forfeiting to my will. I acknowledge his good advice, and after making him swear to meet me at the gate, I scamper back through the eerily silent courtyard to the chambers Arthur and I share. Slipping the infernal dress on reluctantly, I also attach a dagger to my thigh beneath the skirt's folds and sling my bow across my back. Druisten is waiting just as promised. Stealthily, we sneak past the tipsy Roman guards on duty and climb over the steep fortress wall. I curse myself when my arms begin to burn at the slight exertion. I've let myself get out of practice.

Druisten lands with feline grace on the other side of the wall. I tumble like a fool who has never had a day of battle training in her life. Druisten's amused smirk is wiped away by my steely glare. I must spend a bit more time on the practice fields from now on.

Druisten moves swiftly to the sad structure that is Hadrian's wall. We climb over this one as well and I'm painfully aware of how simple it would be for an army of Saxons to infiltrate our defenses. Rome cares only enough for their hold in Briton to build such a weak wall. They might as well relinquish the land to its rightful owners, my people.

I sprint swiftly after Druisten across the open field. I do not feel safe until we're secure within the forest's grasp. It has been too long since I flew through this land. I inhale the tangy scent of pine and sweet earth. I let my troubles melt away for a short time as we dodge through the trees. Druisten leads me across a bubbling brook. The clear water is chilly as it sloshes into my leather boots. I am home.

All too soon, Druisten is coming to an abrupt halt. He scans the shadows with wary eyes and lets out a low whistle. It is returned by the sound of whispering footsteps. Both of us tense until we see the familiar man materialize from the cover of night.

"Daughter, I expected you to come sooner." Merlin holds out his hands to me, but I do not accept them. I glare at my father contemptuously. He appears older than the last time we had an encounter. His hair is nearly all a smoky grey and his painted face is lined with fatigue. Yet his shockingly clear eyes are as vibrant as ever. I soak in the man who created me, led me into adulthood, and taught me all I know of this world. Now he is simply the man who has betrayed me.

"How could you?" I say, my voice a quiet threat. "You gave me your word that Arthur would be left alone." Merlin frowns sadly and I loathe that he seems to feel no shame.

"I had no choice. He has taken something that belongs to us."

"Arthur would not steal. He is no petty thief, Merlin." I rise to Arthur's defense naturally. Though I do not enjoy being torn from my father, he has crossed a line and I cannot ignore his digression. Druisten shoots me a warning glance, but I ignore him. This is not his fight.

"I do not claim that your Arthur has trespassed against us purposefully, daughter. It is my belief he has taken Seraphina out of the goodness of his heart, but that-"

"Seraphina?" I ask bewildered. Does he mean to say Arthur has stolen a person and not a thing? The name is unfamiliar to me.

"Eirene's daughter," a trilling voice replies. I face the newcomer distastefully.

"Elva," I say in acknowledgement, nodding to the younger Woad woman. Her white-blonde hair is twisted into thick braids, streaked through with lines of bold blue. I have not seen her in years, but Elva is unmistakable wherever she goes. Not one of our people shares her ethereal appearance. Her father was from a different tribe of Woads, far to the north near Saxon land.

"I do not recall this Eirene." I direct my words to Merlin. Elva takes it upon herself to answer regardless.

"Of course you wouldn't. She left this land when we were mere infants to settle in Rome." Elva turns the last word into a vile curse. "Our ways were not good enough for her. We were _heathens."_

"You listen to your mother's spiteful words too often, Elva," Merlin says in a gentle reprimand. The woman silences instantly under his disapproval, but venom still swirls within her sapphire eyes. I remember why I've never liked her. Her coldness has not thawed with age.

"You mean to tell me that Arthur has this girl, Seraphina? What importance does she have for you, Merlin, if her mother truly discarded our heritage as Elva claims?" Druisten shifts uncomfortably at my side. I'm pricked with a slight hurt that he has kept all of this from me. Am I not to be trusted any longer? By choosing to stay with Arthur, have I lost their kinship? Merlin reads these thoughts plainly within my expression.

"I was fond of her mother before she left. Eirene had potential to be a great leader someday." We all overlook Elva's disdainful snort. "I sense that her daughter will also be useful in the days to come," Merlin continues. A new surge of anger shatters the shaky calm I nearly had mastered.

"You plan to use her as a tool," I accuse.

"She has been raised as a Roman. I only wish to reveal the other side of her history."

"So you felt the need to attack my lover?" I yell, losing control at last. Druisten steps closer, as though to place a restraining hand upon my arm, but I slip away from him and move towards Merlin.

"There are other ways to solve your problems, _father_. Do you believe that Arthur will let any harm befall your poor, little pet? He will protect her with his life!" I cringe from the honesty in my words. The thought of Arthur sacrificing himself for anyone at all sends a flutter of panic to my breast. Does he not realize that he also sacrifices me?

"You trust him that much?" Elva spits. "The Roman?"

"He is Woad as well. It would do you all good to remember," I retort briskly. Merlin presses his withered palm to my cheek. He searches my face for lies. There are none to find.

"You are sure he will care for the girl?"

"Just as he once did for me." Merlin grimaces at the subtle reminder. After assuring himself that my words are true, he nods, and lets his hand drop.

"I have never been given a reason to doubt your judgment daughter. If you believe in Arthur, I will do so as well."

"Merlin!" Elva cries in disbelief. "You cannot-"

"But," my father says, cutting her off. "Elva will continue to follow them until they reach the wall." I do not like the idea of the bitter woman spying upon Arthur and his knights, but I know better than to argue. Merlin is a smart man. He does not take risks. At least there will be no more attacks.

"However, once Seraphina arrives, I will place her under your guard. When the time is right, you will bring her home to us."

"As you command, father." Out of the corner of my eye, I see Elva slip into the forest once more. Her white skin glittering in the dark. I do not trust her. Merlin notices my gaze.

"She is a good warrior," he states. That is what worries me most. I long to ask why he would send Elva, of all people, to keep watch over the girl she obviously cares nothing for. Merlin always has a reason for the things he does. I am too bogged down with my own worries to fret over his as well. Arthur will return safely. At least I know he is alive. And I will bring Seraphina to my father when he asks me to.

With one last exchange of glances, Merlin disappears as quickly as he arrived, leaving Druisten and I alone. We begin the short journey to the wall at a leisurely pace. Although new questions torment my mind, my heart is lighter knowing that my love is still breathing.

* * *

"Elva's grown since we last saw her," Druisten begins cautiously. We approach the fortress casually, neither of us in a hurry to be imprisoned once again. I'm content to listen to the lyrical sounds of night; owls hooting sonnets to one another, tall grass rustling as they exchange the day's gossip, wildflowers snoring gently for they will open brightly come morning. But Druisten has always been one for words.

"She has grown even colder if you ask me," I sniff disapprovingly. Elva has always been an oddity; inarguably skilled, but a loner. No one knows her story. She entered Merlin's tribe as just a babe, still suckling her mother's breast. Even as a child she rarely interacted with the rest of us. I suspect she feels she's above us common Woads so close to Rome's empire. Her mother, Aine, is a recluse. She lives apart from the community and only ventures within the inner circle when Merlin asks for her. I am well aware that they were once lovers, perhaps still are. His bounty of affairs are none of my concern. In any case, I have only crossed paths with Aine on three occasions, and they were brief. Elva takes after her mother; a defensive creature who dwells in solitude. No one knows of her father, at least they do not speak of him if they do. Merlin once mentioned that he had been a great leader of their tribe in the north. His use of past tense led me to believe the man was long since dead.

There might have been a time when I pitied Elva. She was such a sorrowful child, always speaking to the woodland creatures. She was teased mercilessly. Any sympathy I felt towards the woman has filtered into dislike. Admittedly, I'm still sore from the number of times she kicked my butt when we were joined as sparring partners. We simply don't mix. Apparently, not much has changed.

"She filled out nicely though," Druisten continues, his eyes glazed over with lust. I elbow him in the ribs sharply and scowl.

"I thought you were through mooning over little Elva!" It was never a secret that Druisten was infatuated with Elva when we were younger. She was never gentle with her rejections either. Druisten places a hand over his heart. I'm sickened by his dreamy expression.

"Ah, first love never dies," he sighs wistfully, making me snort unattractively.

"Don't be a fool," I admonish.

"What room have you to speak, Guinevere? I'm forced to bear witness to your pining over that Roman scum every day. You go gooey-eyed."

"I do not!" Druisten pouts his thin lips and bats his eyes flirtatiously.

"Oh Arthur, my Arthur, you shine brighter than a thousand suns. I am captivated by your emerald eyes that pierce my very soul, and your midnight curls softer than the finest silk."

"Druisten, you boar!" I punch his shoulder, holding back none of my strength, but he only laughs. I adore his laugh. It has not changed since childhood. I cannot resist joining him, as mirth is contagious. He swings his arm over my shoulders as we use one another for support. It is so nice to feel lighthearted again. I have not laughed once since Arthur departed. If Druisten were not with me now, I would have taken a dive straight over the fortress wall, driven to insanity.

We're so caught up in our own carefree moment, that we don't see the blazing arrow until it is too late. The last dregs of laughter fade into a panicked scream. Druisten stumbles, staring blankly at the shaft protruding from his left shoulder. I am not strong enough to hold his weight and we both are dragged to the ground. I draw my dagger from its hiding place at my thigh and clench it tightly between my teeth as I use both of my hands to apply pressure around Druisten's wound, now bleeding freely.

My eyes scan the darkness for our attacker and I see him racing fleet footedly towards the fortress gates. He is not a graceful man, too chunky, and the bow upon his broad back is of a sturdy build. A Saxon bow. I watch in horror as the fortress gates are opened, allowing the man to slip inside. Something is horribly wrong. Why would the guards allow him to enter without so much as asking a single question? It's obvious he is a Saxon, one of the beasts that have been threatening us for the past weeks.

Druisten's eyes flutter as he begins to drift away. I pat his smooth cheeks urgently, leaving bloody handprints across his face.

"You must stay awake," I order. Druisten moves his pale lips, but no words bubble forth. He grimaces in pain as I tug at the arrow. I am no healer. He will die if I do not call for help. Although the guards at the gate are under my suspicion, they are also nearest. I rise to my full height and wave my hands in the air, hoping to draw their attention.

"Help!" I scream, trying to keep my voice from wavering. It carries across the short distance to the guards pacing the wall. "I am Lady Guinevere, friend of Artorius Castus. We have been attacked and my companion is injured. You must come quickly."

"Stay where you are," one of them directs from the top of the wall. I resist the urge to point out his stupidity. Where does he think we are going to go? I kneel beside Druisten once more, brushing the dark hair from his eyes. He smiles weakly, trying to reassure me even as he lies at deaths door.

"Only a shoulder wound," he mumbles fuzzily. "Suffered through worse." He reaches up with his good arm to swipe a stray tear from my cheek. "Don't let 'em see you cry." I hold his hand to my chest, counting the seconds it takes for two guards to arrive. Without a word, they lift Druisten between them, not as gently as I would like. I trail behind them to the safety of the fort. They do not question why we were on the other side so late, but I know that we will be put under inquisition later on. As Woads, we are already on shaky terms with the others that reside here. Oh Arthur, why did you leave me?

"He must go to the healer's," I declare sternly, not allowing these Roman bastards to see my fear. These defiler's who would let a Saxon, the very same that opened fire upon us, enter the haven of these walls meant to protect. I do not like it. As we cross the inner courtyard, our quick footsteps echoing upon the cobblestones, I see a flash of movement from the corner of my eyes. The Saxon slips down an alley, headed in the opposite direction of the healer's chambers. Although it burns me, I know what I must do. Druisten will understand.

"Take care of him," I say, stepping in front of the guards. "Or life will not go well for you after tonight. That I can promise." I don't bother to see the two men's reaction to my threat. With a last sorrowful glance at my wounded friend, I slip after the Saxon. He is not difficult to stalk. They know nothing of stealth. I follow him in the shadows as he clunks along as though he belongs here. My gut wrenches as I notice where his path is taking us, straight to Bishop Germanius' quarters.

Any chance that my assumption is incorrect is obliterated when the Saxon halts before the Bishop's place of residence. Nothing is grand within our little town, but the Bishop's home is by far out of place with the rest of our structures. He flaunts his Roman bearings with garish, gild designs carved within the heavy, oak doors of his compartments.

"I have an audience with your Bishop." The Saxon speaks in broken English. He doesn't seem like the most educated man I've come across, but what can be expected of a Saxon. The soldiers placed on either side of the doors, step aside to let him pass. I watch in horror as he slips unchallenged into the Bishop's inner sanctum. Knowing that I would not be as lucky, I sweep around to the back of his diamond-in-the-rough palace.

A servant answers my insistent knocking. I sigh in relief as I recognize the young girl's cheery face. She's one of Vanora's older girls, barely in her teens. She shares her mother's fiery hair and cheeky temper.

"Lady Guinevere?" she asks, surprise mingled with wariness.

"I must see the Bishop." I waste no time with explanations. The girl narrows her hazel eyes and crosses her arms over her budding chest.

"I suggest ye go to the front then. It'd be inappropriate for me to be lettin' visitors in through the kitchens in the dead o' night." If I weren't in such a fluster, I'd admire the girl's spunk. She is obviously her parent's daughter. As it is, I have no time to deal with strong willed girls.

"Listen to me, child. If you do not let me pass, I will inform your father upon his return that you were the reason I was unable to carry out the important business I have been sent here by Arthur to complete." I feel no guilt at lying to her. My trick works flawlessly. The girl bows her head and steps to the side, clearly fearing her father's wrath. I cannot blame her for that.

"Thank-you," I whisper quickly, brushing my hand over her shoulder in gratitude before scurrying through the dimly lit kitchens. The Bishop's manor is eerily silent. I have been here only once before with Arthur, but I tucked the building's lay out in my mind for later use. It is a precaution I have found comes in handy in situations such as these. Relying on my memory, I'm able to find the grand room Bishop Germanius uses to receive visitors. It is similar to Arthur's counsel room. Of course there is no round table.

I curse when I see that the door is firmly closed, a guard placed menacingly in my way. Light spills under the crack and from my precarious hiding place behind a marble image of the Roman Emperor, I am able to hear only the faint mutters of a conversation. The words are unclear, but I dare not risk moving closer. Have I left Druisten only to gain no information? My legs ache as I stand motionlessly in the dark. Minutes turn to hours. I wait. Patience is a quality that is taught to all Woad's during their training, yet mine is tested now.

Just as I think this is pointless, the chamber door opens. I duck further into the shadows as the filthy Saxon passes by unaware. It takes more self-control than I thought I'd ever need to keep from pouncing on him. I must keep my wits about me and be tactful about this. The guard posted at the door follows behind the Saxon, leaving Bishop Germanius unprotected. It is a naïve move on their part, but a gift on mine. I waste no time in striding forth. I push open the heavy doors and hold myself with as much dignity as can be mustered.

Bishop Germanius looks up from the golden goblet of wine in his fleshy hand, dotted with liver spots. He does not appear surprised to see me. In fact, he conceals any emotion at all. Bile churns in the pits of my stomach. How can Arthur obey this slimy man? If this is a representation of the church he so adores, than I am proud to be a pagan.

"Lady Guinevere, what a pleasant surprise. If you would be so kind as to shut the door. There is a draft." I slam the oak door closed with more force than necessary. Bishop Germanius beckons me to join him at the table, but I remain standing, feeling more confident on my feet. A fire crackles in the massive hearth. It is hellfire reflected in the Bishop's arrogant gaze.

"Would you care for a glass of wine? Arthur would be displeased with me if he were to hear that I did not treat you with the utmost hospitality. Although your visit is a bit late for proprieties sake." His heady accent crawls beneath my skin like an irritation I cannot rid myself of. It is difficult to determine who I hate more in this moment; the Saxon messenger or this holy man.

"Save your courtesy, my lord. I am not here to share a drink by your fire."

"Very well. What matter weighs so heavily upon your mind that you must disrupt my rest this night?" Bishop Germanius places his goblet delicately upon the polished table. The red of his elegant robe is the color of fresh blood. He wears it well.

"My companion and I were ambushed _this night_," I hiss. "He is currently being treated for his wound."

"You must be speaking of your Woad acquaintance."

"Druisten." I dislike the way he defines my race, as though it were a nasty flavor upon his tongue. Bishop Germanius arranges his features into a mask of false concern.

"I do hope he survives."

"It was merely a shoulder wound, but that is not what bothers me, Bishop. I must admit that I was confounded upon seeing our attacker welcomed into your chambers. I was not aware that you were so closely acquainted with the Saxons." Instantly, Bishop Germanius drops his polite façade. His dark eyes narrow under bushy, grey brows. I watch as he runs a thick finger around the rim of his cup, taking his time. He swirls the deep, red liquid before taking a sip.

"I understand," he begins slowly, "why Arthur finds you attractive. You're a bright woman, Lady Guinevere, but there are things in this world you will never understand." His belittling tone causes my anger to simmer.

"Please, teach me if you will." I move closer to the table, resting my palms flat against the smooth wood. Bishop Germanius analyzes me, as though I were an oddly flavored stew as opposed to a human.

"You have heard of the Saxon army approaching our tiny haven here?"

"It is gossiped about everywhere, but I have been given no concrete evidence to the fact."

"I am giving it to you now. They are, in fact, planning to infiltrate Hadrian's wall. Rome has decided not to waste our resources on this distant outpost." His words bring my blood to a boil. I have wished for the Romans to be gone my entire life, and now when they are actually needed, they will abandon my country and all of its people to be overrun with bloody Saxons. Arthur's knights have fought and died for nothing.

"You will leave these people to die," I accuse boldly. Bishop Germanius shrugs as though the lives of Briton's citizens are inconsequential. Apparently they are just that in Rome's eyes. I would gladly crush his smug face with my fist.

"We are not so heartless, Lady Guinevere. An agreement as been reached tonight. The Emperor deems it fit for us to bargain with these Saxons." A bargain? What kind of horrible deed has been decided upon at this very table? Nothing created between Romans and Saxons can end well.

"And what sort of _arrangement_ is strong enough to deter the Saxons?" Bishop Germanius smiles cryptically. He stands imperiously, his robe swishing about his feet.

"I am not in a position to disclose such information, but rest assured that Rome is taking care of the matter with the utmost caution. This matter will be ancient history as soon as Artorius returns."

"Arthur?" I hiss sharply. Bishop Germanius pauses in front of the broiling hearth. He appears to be burning. His coy expression makes me nervous.

"You must be terribly worried for him," the Bishop sighs. I don't relent to the returned gentleness in his voice. He turns his cool, calculating eyes upon me once more.

"Do not fear, my lady. We have heard word that Arthur and his knights shall arrive within the next few days. They are traveling swiftly."

"From what source have you garnered this information?" I know Arthur, and I know his scout well enough, to be confident neither of them would take a conspicuous trail. Bishop Germanius chuckles humorlessly as he continues his journey to the door. He raps once before it swings open, a guard waiting in the portal for instructions. The Bishop inspects me one more time.

"We have eyes everywhere in this land of yours, Lady Guinevere. I would be watchful if I were you." His astute threat sours in my mind as I pass by him. My dismissal does not need to be spoken in words.

"May your dreams be sweet, my lord," I say politely, cursing him with unheard damnations all the while. Bishop Germanius nods, still smiling slyly.

"Escort the lady to her quarters. It is dangerous to be alone at night." As we depart, the Bishop's toy soldier always one step behind me, I know that he has not been sent as an escort. These are the ever present eyes Bishop Germanius spoke of. I am more of a prisoner now than ever before. If only Arthur were here. He understands these political games so much better than I. My place is on the battle field, not a diplomacy ring where every sentence is elusive. Bargains with Saxons, Druisten writhing on the blood soaked ground, and a half-Woad girl to become my father's new pet. Instinct tells me that tonight's events are connected somehow, but I'm drawing a blank as to how that is possible. Yes, if Arthur were here…I cannot solve this mystery on my own.

_Ride hard, my love. I fear we will be ruined before you reach us and I am in need of your guidance now more than ever. _

_

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**A/N: **Speedy reviewers, you rock :D My computers two seconds from dying though, so no personal replies. Hope this chapter is enjoyable even though it's just a bunch of plot really...things are beginning to boil. What could Germanius possibly have agreed to with the Saxons? Dun dun dun.


	13. Chapter 13

**DISCLAIMER: **I own...Seraphina and Eoforhild. But not much else. Kudos to the Arthurian Legend!

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"_Let us have a care not to disclose our hearts to those who shut up theirs against us."_

_-Francis Beaumont_

**THIRTEEN**

~Galahad~

Eoforhild squirms in the saddle. Her little legs jounce against Mithras' silky sides until Sera grasps the child's ankle to still her. I peer down at the stubborn Princessa trotting along between her horse and mine. Her lips are pressed together in a determined grimace, though all the while her delicate eyelids flutter wearily. Sera does not look well. Her cheeks are sallow, a faint sheen of sweat coats her brow, and she winces with each step.

"This is ridiculous!" I cry, finally losing my patience. "Get on the horse." Sera shakes her head firmly as she glances surreptitiously at Eoforhild. A few miles back, Sera decided it would be easier to walk, considering her young stalker was on the verge of knocking her to the ground with all of her fidgeting. I sigh in exasperation, looking from the pale child perched precariously on the mammoth palominos back to the even paler woman drudging forward on the rocky ground.

"Let her ride with me for a bit," I offer, giving what I hope is a kind smile to Eoforhild. The girl would have fallen if Sera had not had the good sense to take a strong grip upon her leg. Eoforhild's distrusting eyes are narrowed. She still isn't at ease around us. I'd have figured any offspring of the Saxons to be just as vicious as their sires, but this itty one is like a baby bird that's fallen from its nest and now flutters hopelessly on broken wings. Sera was much the same way in the beginning.

"I'm quite content to walk. My legs are stiff from sitting astride so long anyways." Sera tries to keep a brave face, but she is unable to stifle the yawn that shatters the façade. I'm tempted to forcefully lift her onto my own mare. My hand reaches out to snag the back of her cloak, but Sera swats me away roughly.

"Galahad, as noble as your intentions may be, I have vowed to never share a mount with a man again. It is highly uncomfortable."

"I promise to behave." I arrange my features into the very picture of innocence. Sera smacks my leg, a slight smile brightening her worn face. The shadows beneath her stormy eyes have turned a violent shade of purple, the tell-tale tattoos of too few hours sleep. I glance away as a wave of subdued frustration hits me. She was out with Lancelot again last night. I've seen them slip away together a handful of times now, yet I've never worked up the courage to follow them. It doesn't take a scholar to imagine what goes on behind the shelter of these trees.

Every day I struggle to find the proper words to speak my concerns. Sera is no tavern whore and Lancelot has never been an honest man when it came to affairs such as these. In battle, I would ask for no one else to stand by my side, but women are a different matter. I've always been disgusted with his treatment of them, as though they were mere tools for his own amusement, and once their purpose is served he feels no shame in discarding them. I loathe to think Sera will reach the same callous end. After all she has suffered, she deserves much better than Lancelot can offer.

With a stifled groan of reluctance, I decide that it's time I voice my opinion before she is in even more over her head. Even now her gaze lingers upon Lancelot riding ahead of us. He cuts a fine figure on his magnificent, ebony stallion with those precious two swords of his making a daring statement. It is no wonder women fall to his bed, won over by the charm of good lucks and a roguish attitude. Frankly, I find the whole thing sickening.

"Care to know how many hearts he has broken?" Sera wrenches her eyes from the back of Lancelot's head to stare at me with one eyebrow quirked quizzically. I jab my thumb in Lancelot's direction to clear her confusion. Sera pulls together a well-stitched mask of apathy.

"It is of no interest to me," she says lightly, dismissing my subtle insinuation. Now that I have finally brooked the courage to confront her, I will not retreat so easily. Eoforhild is drooping off. Her flaming curls spill across Mithras' pure white mane as her head falls against his neck. Unconsciously, Sera tightens her hold on the child's leg to keep her from sliding.

"You are not in the least bit curious of the women he has abandoned." A warning flash of thunder ripples through her eyes.

"Should I be?" Sera snaps testily, obviously aggravated by my evasive games. I swallow all of my reservations and continue bluntly.

"It is only natural for a woman to wonder about her lover's previous lovers." I inspect Sera closely for her reaction. It isn't what I expected. Her irritated demeanor returns to befuddled surprise.

"Lancelot? My lover?" she guffaws, a bemused grin striking across her lips. It's as though I've suggested Arthur were really a woman, the idea appears to be so ridiculous to her.

"Is he not? Sera, I have seen the two of you sneaking away together." This time, her face blanches. She stumbles on the uneven path, barely managing to catch herself. She looks to the ground, a shamed blush rising in her sallow cheeks. This reaction is the one I expected. Something sour churns within the pits of my stomach. Secretly, I had hoped my assumptions were incorrect.

"Galahad, you must not speak of this to anyone," she whispers urgently.

"So it is true!" I cry. "I figured you to have more sense, Sera." At my disappointed tone, she glances up once more. Her grey eyes are clouded over with nervous apprehension. She scans the area swiftly, checking to make sure we haven't been overheard. No one is paying a lick of attention to our conversation. With the exception of Lancelot perhaps, who has begun to peak over his shoulder at the two of us.

"It isn't as it seems," Sera protests weakly. "You misunderstand."

"Do I? Your actions speak for themselves. I see the way in which you gaze at him."

"I do not _gaze_," Sera snarls quietly. "I may glance, but-"

"And do you merely glance during your nightly adventures," I interrupt harshly. Sera reels closer to Mithras, stepping away from me. The motion is painful. We have never fought before and I did not wish to begin now.

"Sera, I only aim to protect you." I continue in a softer voice, trying to placate the situation. "You do not know Lancelot as I do. He is not capable of being honest with a woman."

"Again with your noble intentions!" Sera snorts sarcastically. She fixes me with a steely glare. "But I am perfectly able of guarding my own heart, Galahad. I do not need a knight in _shining_ armor to defend my virtue." She glances at my stained armor and scruffy appearance disdainfully. Certainly, we do not live up to the fairy tales she has heard. Lancelot is a whore, Gawain is chronically rude, Bors wouldn't know manners if someone shoved them up his bum, and Tristan…well there isn't much about him that isn't frightening. Regardless, I have not forfeited my ideas on chivalry. The others poke fun at my celibacy, but I will not disrespect a woman by taking her to my bed and leaving it cold come morning.

"He cannot love you," I murmur truthfully. Sera looks towards Lancelot once more, wistfully, just as he turns back. Their eyes lock and I'm irked to see her blush darken at his arrogant smirk.

"I am not asking for his love," she says darkly. Her jaw sets in determination as she focuses on the ground again. Apparently it is safer to watch ones own feet. "He has already given me too much. I could never hope for more and I want nothing else from him as it is."

"Do you really believe that?" I question suspiciously. No matter how much she strives to deny it, Sera does _gaze_. "You're young and impressionable. It would be no fault of yours, Sera. Lancelot knows better than to-"

"What kind of a fool do you take me for?" The venom in her sudden attack unbalances me. If looks could kill, I'd certainly be roasted beyond recognition by the fire in her eyes. "I have lost my family and my life. I have watched helplessly as everything I had ever thought real crumbled into a pile of fairy tales. After all of this, you have the audacity to call me _young and impressionable_? Perhaps I have not seen as much of this world as you, Sir Galahad, but after losing everything else, my virtue does not seem so very important. As for my heart, there is one knight who I have trusted enough to confide in."

"Oh really? And who might that be? Your darling Lancelot?" I cannot tame the edge in my voice. The throes of anger have sunk their talons into my breast. Sera grips my stirrup in a white-knuckled hold. The crestfallen cast monopolizing her face fills me with regret.

"I gave my heart to you, Galahad, as my friend. It was you who I believed in when it felt as though I could not go on and you who reminded me what it felt like to be happy even as the darkness threatened to consume me. Without your friendship I would be a shell of hate and self-loathing."

"Sera-" She cuts me off with a wave of her hand. I watch as she swings into the saddle, startling Eoforhild awake in the process. The child blinks innocently, unaware of the dreadful mistake I've made.

"You may cease fretting over my naïve heart, Galahad. It seems I have just learned how to defend it better." With that prick to my already throbbing guilt, Sera urges Mithras to trot ahead. I don't bother to call after her as she settles in beside Dagonet. This is what comes of my trying to be helpful! It is no wonder I am a virgin. Women shall forever remain a mystery to me. I always stumble upon the wrong words, losing my temper at the worst possible moments.

Sera deserves better than Lancelot. And she deserves much better than me as well. Perhaps it will be for the best when we reach the wall and take our separate paths. A Roman Princessa does not belong with a rugged band of murderous knights. She is a diamond in the rough. The rest of us are all a pile of horse dung. At least, we stink the same.

"Trouble in paradise?" Gawain chuckles as he takes the vacant space left by Sera. I am in no mood for his sarcasm today. My only reply is a monotone grunt. However the older man is incapable of taking a hint. He ribs me mercilessly with his elbow.

"Cheer up, mate. I'll find you a much better broad when we reach the fort to celebrate our freedom."

"Knowing your type of generosity, I would end up with a unic in the bed beside me." Gawain feigns a look of hurt. His tousled braids are burnished to a golden hue in the withering sunlight that bears down on our backs coldly. No heat reaches this land. I miss Sarmatian summers. The winters may have been brutal, but those long months of sweet sunshine made up for the chilly weeks. Sera would enjoy my country with its sprawling fields and salty breezes.

"I'd like for her to come home with me," I admit honestly. Gawain follows my remorseful gaze to Sera in the distance. My friend mutters a discernable oath and his voice is devoid of the easy humor from before.

"The Princessa does not belong with us. She is Rome's child."

"And if they do not want her?" I ask bitterly. It is an idea that has crossed my mind from time to time, more often the closer we approach the wall. Where will Sera go if Rome deems she is still unfit for their high society? Will they shun her into some distant land yet again, without family or ally to protect her? It would be such a waste. I am positive Arthur would not allow such an event to occur, but is it any better for them to welcome her with open arms? These Romans are all cheats and politicians. Sera will become nothing more than another of their devious plots for power. She will be wed to the highest bidder and forced into a life of domestic submission. I cannot see her bending to their will gracefully.

"They will want her," Gawain grumbles. "Do you think Bishop Germanius would let a Roman Princessa run off with a Sarmatian knight? We're dogs to them, Galahad." He blindsides me with a rare sympathetic glance. From the beginning, Gawain has been my closest confidante. He took me under his wing when I was no more than a frightened boy. Although our opinions differ in concerns to Sera, he understands my pain.

"I warned you not to become attached. You and the girl are fated to take different paths. As fond as you have become of her, it does not change the way of this world. Neither you, nor Arthur himself, can protect her forever." His words sting with their honesty. What point is there of being a knight when I cannot even rescue one woman?

"So we will enjoy our freedom while she is left alone and without a guardian?" I ask, not expecting an answer. Gawain clamps a strong hand around my shoulder.

"Yes, because we deserve a happy ending."

"So does Sera," I retort. Gawain sighs heavily. He cannot make me see things in the same way as he does. Of course I have pined for freedom and home as much, if not more, than the others. I want nothing more than to return to Sarmatia and start a family of my own, to forget this nightmare. But I cannot abandon her in good conscious. Her fate will torment me for the rest of my days.

"Will you stay for her?" Gawain asks the question I have no answer to. My silence speaks volumes however. Arthur makes deciding between right and wrong seem so easy. I deserve my freedom. Sera is my friend. Am I selfless enough to sacrifice everything I have strived to obtain for her? I would die for any of my brother knights, but I'm unsure as to whether I would stay here for them either. Remaining in this land is not death, it is torture. A life of agony weighed against sweet summers. It would appear that I lose either way.

Sera catches me staring. Her eyes are still reproachful from our argument. She would not ask me to stay with her. Her stubborn ways would not allow it. Perhaps she doesn't even wish me around. I should leave her be. Of course I know that I will not.

* * *

~Lancelot~

I'm rattled from a half slumber by a blood curdling screech from Tristan's hawk. The bird swoops past, his beady eyes shining with pride at shitting all over my brief moment of peace. Or perhaps "peace" is the wrong description of the fleeting dream still dusting my thoughts. My body continues to burn, despite the night chill settling in around us. I grimace at the obvious declaration of my arousal. Have I truly lost all control over myself? I can still taste the Princessa on my parched tongue. I ache as I recall the spectral feel of her slender form trapped beneath mine helplessly. I push the dreams aside. They are meaningless.

My heavy eyes pinpoint Seraphina across the camp. She's caring for her golden palomino. The way her hands move fluidly along his sweat-soaked sides is so blatantly feminine. The rosy sunset softens the harsh angles of her exhausted face. She smiles idly. Eoforhild dawdles at her feet, tugging at her breeches, and tentatively touching the gentle palomino. Seraphina giggles when the girl leaps back, frightened by a sudden snort from the animal. I watch as she beckons the little one closer once more and places her tiny hand against Mithras' neck. Seraphina has adjusted to the Saxon child hooked to her side by unexplainable bonds. They could be mother and child if it were not for their varied appearance.

I enjoy watching her this way, when the shield is lowered. When we are training, the Princessa is the very portrait of ruthless determination. Her improvement is remarkable. Granted, her arms still waver and her movements are quite haphazard, she has managed to grasp the techniques with a nimble quickness of mind. With Tristan's aide, we've created a watered down warrior. She wouldn't last an hour on a real battle field, but her daring impresses me. The once cowardly Princessa is not opposed to taking risks. A bruise throbs beneath my tunic as a testament to her growing confidence. Another surprise, she's much better with a bow than a sword. Perhaps Tristan is a better teacher than I. The idea irks me.

My gaze wanders to the scowling scout. It is silly, but I chafe at his interference upon our nightly excursions. Seraphina is a handful. Much more is accomplished with the both of us supervising her lessons, but his presences also serves another, slyer purpose. With Tristan's unflinching observation, I'm forced to be proper. If the scout were not present, I may have acted upon my blooming lust already, regardless Arthur's wishes that she remain untouched. I am already breaking my word to him by training her to fight, so why should I deny myself the pleasure? One more crime cannot weigh upon my soul much heavier.

Tristan acknowledges my glance with a surreptitious nod. I curse him silently. The man must know what he's doing. But why? He wants Seraphina to learn how to protect herself. He knows nothing of the revenge she plans. Then again, I have other suspicions. Tristan might be using this as a way to spite Arthur for their unpleasant encounter. Sense then, things have been unusually tense. Even I have been avoiding Arthur. Looking him in the eye is a trial I am not strong enough to pass. Seraphina is improving, but she will still die. It's a shame something so young and pretty must perish. It is regretful, but I will not try to stop her. She is not _my_ charge, just my burden.

A flash of movement catches my attention just as Eoforhild's high pitched whines fill the muffled air. I focus on the unfolding scene with detached interest. Seraphina is attempting to pull the child towards Dagonet. Eoforhild's little feet drag through the slush as she fights bitterly, her oval face screwed up in horror.

"It's only for a bit," Seraphina growls.

"We stay together," the child cries adamantly. Those three bland words strung into a single thought sound more binding than anything I've ever heard. Even the whispered 'I love you' from women who shared my bed for one night and thought themselves infatuated. Yes, Eoforhild's declaration is so much more. Seraphina kneels before her, clearly trying to conceal her exasperation.

"Do you trust me?" she murmurs, her voice so soft it barely trickles to my ears. I strain to hear. Eoforhild nods firmly as she twines her fingers through Seraphina's.

"Then you know I will return to you." Eoforhild wavers before nodding once more, not as convincingly as before.

"But you mustn't leave me with them!" The Saxon girl eyes Dagonet apprehensively. She must still believe we plan on eating her. Frankly, there isn't much meat upon those fragile bones to devour.

"Dagonet is a good man," Seraphina states sternly. "He will not harm you and if you truly trust me, then you will trust him as well."

"Do you trust them?" Eoforhild asks, her eyes abnormally wide in her tiny face. Seraphina pauses as she glances absently to each of us. She winces when her eyes find Galahad, oblivious to the interaction between the two females. Then she discovers me and the uncertainty is easy to discern. I have never bothered to ask whether or not she trusted us. Seraphina focuses on Eoforhild again.

"I suppose I do," she confesses. The girl seems appeased and reluctantly lets Seraphina lead her to the waiting Dagonet. He smiles reassuringly at the timid child, but receives a frown in return. Eoforhild and I both watch as Seraphina slips away down a gentle slope.

We have not had a moment of privacy in a week's time. Tristan is our chaperone at night and Eoforhild's wide eyes never leave her during the day. This is my chance. Although I do not quite know what I hope to accomplish. Surely nothing good. Regardless of reason, I follow the Princessa stealthily, driven by curiosity and something much more dangerous.

Curiosity wins out when I see her kneeling at the bend of a babbling brook. Her hair curtains only one side of her placid face, but the other is exposed to my viewing pleasure. As I draw closer on light steps, I see her lips moving rapidly. Her hands are clasped in her lap and her stormy eyes are shut tight. Steadily, a stream of incomprehensible Latin rises above the noisy water gushing over the rocks. She does not stir as I crouch beside her. My eyes never leave her face as she continues to repeat a prayer I am unable to comprehend. Until her tongue takes a sharp turn to English.

"Lord, I come to you humbled with a plea not birthed from selfish intentions. If my sinful tongue is still fit to make a request, then I only ask that you bless Galahad with his freedom. Do not allow him to tether himself to me, for I am going to a place he cannot follow. Soothe his worries. He is a good man, Lord. He has earned a life beyond this tormented soil. He has-"

"Galahad does not waste his time with your God." Seraphina jerks at my bitter injection. Her eyes widen in shock and she tumbles backwards, distancing us. Her slender hands are still knotted together. I pry them apart, ignoring her attempts to draw away.

"Why are you here?" Seraphina finally brings herself to speak. Her words are spiked with irritation. I feel no guilt at intruding upon her sniffling prayer.

"Procuring your safety. It's not intelligent to slip out of sight."

"Dagonet knows where I am," she huffs. "I wish the lot of you would stop trying to protect me! Arthur frets for my life, you smoother me with watchfulness, and Galahad valiantly attempts to keep my virtue intact!" Moments after her rant comes to an end, Seraphina blanches. I raise an eyebrow quizzically amused.

"Your virtue?"

"It is nothing," she replies hastily. Her hands twist nervously in her lap. She picks at a lose thread in her baggy breeches. I grip her wrist to calm her fidgeting. Her skin is course with dirt. I can feel the bones protruding sharply, yet the fragility is appealing. I try not to let it distract me.

"Your trembling would suggest otherwise," I say coaxingly, my voice low. Seraphina attempts to free her arm, but is unable to do so. Her brittle bones twist against my palm. I could snap her wrist easily with a simple twist. Instead, I trace little circles into her skin until some of the dirt is brushed aside and I'm able to feel the familiar smoothness of a woman's flesh. My fingertips prickle.

"I noticed that you and our young knight were not exactly on pleasant terms tonight. Is it the cause of your unease?"

"I am perfectly fine." My thumb presses into the delicate underside of her wrist and I relish in the fluttering pulse that I discover. Her blood moves swiftly.

"Your heart is racing," I point out.

"Perhaps it is because I am infuriated," she snaps. Her venomous glare causes me to falter for a moment and she uses my distraction as an opportunity to jerk free. Seraphina crosses her arms over he chest.

"With Galahad?" I ask, honestly curious now.

"With you as well. Is it so much to ask for a moment to breathe freely without a child or a knight watching my every move?"

"Yes," I answer duly. "But we will reach the wall within two days time and you will no longer have to worry about us. After all, you have Saxons to kill." Seraphina sighs, all of her temper drifting away on that wistful exhalation. Her expression is lacking in the fiery desire for revenge I have grown accustomed to.

"It is still your intent to go after them, is it not?"

"I do not know!" Seraphina moans. Her hands begin to writhe in her lap once more. Her brow furrows in distress. "I thought it was what I wanted, but after seeing that village…I can still feel those poor people's ashes on my skin." I swipe a finger across the back of her arm and hold it up for inspection. Nothing but standard dirt.

"Nothing a good wash can't take care of," I say carelessly. Seraphina rounds on me incredulously, as though I've just suggested ripping out my own heart and roasting it over the fire.

"How can you speak so lightly of such things? They are dead."

"Aye, do you suppose to battle death now, my lady. I cannot prepare you for that mission."

"These people play no part in war games. They are not warriors, but farmers who till the land rather than swing blades and shed blood. This land is their home, not a prize to be won." Her passionate speech falls deaf on my jaded ears. In the beginning I may have felt the way she does now, but time has hardened my sympathies. I cannot mourn every man, woman, and child that I have buried, or even worse, left to rot in the open and pecked apart by carrion birds.

"Their plight is pitiful, but it is not my responsibility to save poor peasants." Lighting flashes brightly in the swirling depths of her pupils.

"So you will return to your beloved Sarmatia and let them be picked off by Saxons."

"This is not my war," I bellow. Her accusations have begun to burrow beneath my icy barricade of apathy.

"Then it is mine," Seraphina fires without missing a beat. I'm unsure whether she is selfless or still only a fool. Either way, my heart softens. Again I have misjudged this woman. Her revenge has transformed into an equally doomed quest.

"You will not win." I inform her of this truth sorrowfully. "You wish to deliver these people, but you are one girl against three armies who have sought after this land for years."

"If I do not fight for them, then who will, Lancelot?" Her eyes beg me to understand, but I do not. Revenge I know. Mercy I do not. "They are victims as was I. But I have survived and now I must be the voice for those who did not and for those who may yet still have a chance at freedom. You do know freedom." No answer blooms in my mind. Words have failed me while the brook whispers eloquently. Seraphina is motionless as I rest my hand upon her cheek. Her skin is still warm from the passion of her speech. Her heat feeds my cold limbs, spiraling from my fingertips to deep within my chest. I remember the days when I rued her displays of emotion and now they intrigue me. I lean into her, a moth to the naïve flame.

Seraphina does not fight me tonight. Her lips have become familiar, but I savor something new. Perhaps it is hope, sweet like honey and lullabies from a distant land. My hand grazes the slight curve of her breast as I press it against her pounding heart. The beat sings quietly, muffled beneath the loose fabric of her borrowed tunic. I'm content with our gentle meeting for only a short moment. I long to find the origin of this burning hope and compassion buried deep within her where it has been hiding for all of this time.

As Seraphina begins to shy away, my kiss becomes more forceful. Suddenly the fluttering of her heart is like a pair of wings beating helplessly against her rib cage. I sink further into her, unwilling to relinquish the reality of my dreams. My blood boils when she sobs, torn with confusion. Her hand places the lightest of touches on my cheek and the back of my neck. Yet she continues to withdrawal, until with a final strangled cry, Seraphina pushes me away with more strength than I pegged her for.

She leaps to her feet like a startled animal. A blush seeps from the roots of her disheveled hair to the coveted depths beneath her tunic collar. In a daze, I'm fascinated by the power I have over her. The hazy glaze dominating her otherwise bewildered expression. Her swollen lips quiver with everything she can't think to say. I reach out to her, but Seraphina takes a meaningful step away. Her chest rises as she breathes in deeply.

"Do not," she whispers weakly. "I…I am not interested in your advances." She straightens gradually, regaining her surety clumsily as her voice steadies.

"And I certainly will not tolerate this behavior any longer. As one of Arthur's famed _knights_ I expect you to heed to my wishes that our relationship remain proper. Have I made myself clear?" Her rejection seers into my breast, melting away the pleasant feeling from before. Never have I been refused by a woman. My spurned pride throbs angrily.

"Of course, my lady," I reply coolly. "My sincerest apologies. I should not have overstepped my bounds." I rise to me feet, towering over her. I bow mockingly, before striding away. I leaver her there, beside that loud brook. She can continue her damned prayers. My hand wavers over the hidden crucifix I had nearly forgotten about. I'm tempted to smash it beneath the heel of my boot. Grind it into dust.

Galahad pierces me with a glare when I reach camp, but I ignore him. Arthur is ordering Tristan to ride ahead, but I intervene in their conversation.

"I shall do it," I state. Arthur reads me carefully. He must see my need to be far away from here, if only for awhile. Arthur relents with a hesitant nod.

"Be careful, Lancelot," he warns, before giving me clearance. I shove past Tristan, slamming into him with my shoulder.

"She is all yours," I grumble under my breath so that only he can hear before breezing by. Eoforhild watches me spitefully as I spur my stallion impatiently. Her childish glower is a blatant indictment. I will not allow myself to feel guilty for my actions tonight. Seraphina has made it clear where we stand and I will not disrespect her decisions. She is clearly unattainable. It is a strange concept to me and one I am loathe to find only makes the foolish girl irresistible. I will distance myself from her. Our pact is done.

* * *

~Seraphina~

Tristan is waiting in the dark when I arrive. Unconsciously, my eyes scan the surrounding alcove of land for any sign of Lancelot. Of course there is none to be had. I'm not sure whether it is relief or disappointment that courses through my veins. My lips are still sore with longing. Will I ever grow accustomed to his kisses?

I mentally berate myself for such silly ponderings. There will be no opportunity to become accustomed to anything! How many times must I remind myself the dangers of journeying to the places Lancelot would lead me to? Perhaps Galahad was right to warn me of the insufferable man. His dark charm, smoldering eyes, and the churning in the pits of my stomach when-STOP! I slap myself, not caring how odd the action must look to Tristan. My cheek stings and the pain quickly settles my wandering thoughts. I am no longer some silly girl controlled by fantasies. Then again, the fire in my blood is hardly a fantasy. There is nothing poetic about Lancelot. Raised in solitude, with only rugged travelers far past their youthful prime, I have never experienced what can only be classified as pure, animalistic desire. It's quite similar to the lust for blood; just as untamable. Yet I must find a way to reign in these temptations.

We are fast approaching Hadrian's wall. My fate is two days journey to the south. Regardless of what occurs when I return from my exile, I know the goal I have set for myself. I will be the voice of Briton's people. Lancelot may scoff, but at least I have found a cause worth fighting for. He roams the earth a directionless rogue, with only his loyalty to Arthur to give him any purpose whatsoever. Even that has been tainted by me. To be without heart, without a mission, is to be void of humanity. Lancelot is the fool. I will no longer waste my time dwelling over him. If he wishes to walk through this life a blind man, then who am I to try opening his eyes? Who am I to awaken his soul?

Drifting on a wind of frustration, I pick Tristan's bow up from the ground. The scout watches without comment as I string a slender arrow skillfully; if not anywhere near as swiftly as he or the other knights. I pull back on the taut string, grinning wickedly at the vibrations humming through my fingertips. I level my eyes to the space directly above Tristan's head, pretending that it is Lancelot my aim is meant for. Tristan does not flinch as my arrow is released. It whistles through the night and lands with a solid, pleasing thud deep within the tree trunk, just an inch above my intended mark. It vibrates over Tristan's head. The scout's amber eyes glint approvingly.

"If only you were as quick with the sword," he states tonelessly, as close to a compliment as I shall ever come. He retrieves the arrow from its resting place and balances it in his palm.

"Perhaps you should argue with Lancelot more often," he says, a barely noticeable hint of teasing in his tone. There isn't much that Arthur's scout doesn't know about. I've come to terms with his unnerving ability of knowing things I'd rather he didn't. Secrets are myths to Tristan.

"I do not think such a feat is possible," I reply stiffly.

"Then fighting with Galahad might do the trick."

"I shall be bickering with you, Sir Tristan," I snap irately, unusually courageous in my current state.

"You would lose," Tristan states duly with a slight shrug of his shoulders. Giving me no time to form a reproach, he unsheathes his sword. The metal hisses as it is drawn free from his scabbard. He leers forward with intimidating fluid motions. I much prefer Lancelot's heavy handed attacks to Tristan's slippery twists and turns. Both men are brutal in their own way.

"I do not have a sword," I exclaim as he sweeps closer. Without Lancelot to loan one of his blades, I am utterly without a means to defend myself. Tristan smirks darkly.

"Improvise," he chuckles. My weary muscles shake off the thick film of fatigue and slowly I dissolve into the motion of battle. To my delight, Tristan's barrage of strikes leaves me no room to think of Lancelot or Galahad. Tomorrow I'll be cruelly reminded of today's events. Tonight however, I will lose myself in the blissful adrenaline of learning to survive.

* * *

~Eoforhild~

_Man_ is our word for wickedness. In English, the language that makes my tongue fuzzy sometimes, it is what they call their males. Madar wanted me to learn how to speak their strange words because she was a traitor. The lady they call Seraphina, such a difficult name to stumble over, smells like my Madar; earth and smoke and anguish. That's why I like her. In my head I call her Lady Azar, Lady of Fire. Her eyes are the color of ash, but I know the flames are hiding just below the surface, waiting to be relit. Sometimes I see them flashing.

When I awaken to find Lady Azar gone, her imprint still left in the withering grass, I am not afraid. She often leaves me at night to go fight with two of the barbarians from Sarmatia. Lady Azar calls them knight. I do not understand what she means by that. Madar taught me that night meant when the sun became too tired to shine any longer. Is the sun so angry with these men that she refuses to brighten their days? I do not like them very much either, but Lady Azar also calls them friends. Madar called them enemies. English is such a complicated thing. It grows and wriggles from my grasp, even though I pretend to have control so as to not look weak. Every person seems to have a different word for everything.

I toss and turn on the ground restlessly as my two languages argue with one another as they so often do. Manthre are words. To say means singan, but sing in English is what we call bere. I feel barhene, naked, in this country. Feder, they say father, left me here. Madar would not be happy if she knew what has become of her little daughter. I am feagan that she is morth. _I am glad that she is dead. _I never liked it when she was unhappy. Yes, Feder left me because I am not even a son. What use do I have to him? I was a baby bird in an army of men, with no Madar to fill my hungry belly, only a _man, a wicked,_ to call me bastard.

"Eoforhild," he said. "Runt, cunt, useless mara…nightmare." I am all of those. I am Eoforhild, the Saxon, instructed to hate the barbarians and the Roman's who bow to one God. How can one god do the job of many? But I cannot hate Lady Azar. I have no family. Neither does she. We are related by loneliness and it is not right to hate your family. Madar taught me that too. Feder was never really one of us. I hardly knew him until Madar was struck with the fever and I had no one left but him. MAN, MAN, MAN. Wicked, all of them.

I see one of them moving nearby. He paces. It is their alpha. Arthur, they say. He was the one who rescued me from the spirit-man. I call him that because sometimes he is difficult to see. Arthur is always pacing. I cannot sleep until Lady Azar returns, so I will pace as well. Perhaps it works.

He does not notice me walking behind him, step for step, for the longest time. His cloak hits my face as it flaps angrily behind him. I am not frightened of Alpha Arthur either. At least not very much. He is not one of the man-eating barbarian's. He is a powerful man. At last, he senses my presence. His pretty, pretty green eyes widen in mild surprise.

"Child, should you not be resting?" Alpha Arthur has a gentle voice. It is strange for a commander to be soft-spoken. Feder was often beaten by his leader. Of course I was beaten by Feder afterwards. It was his way of feeling strong again.

"I am not tired," I chirp. Baby bird in a new nest of savages. That is who I always am. Arthur kneels so that we are on the same level. I am startled by his show of equality.

"Lady Seraphina will be worried if she awakens to find you have wandered off," he reprimands. I know Lady Azar wants to keep her night games a secret, because she never talks of them during the day. So I lie. It is harder to do in this English than my native tongue. The words are not as slippery.

"She needed to take a piss." Arthur's pale lips quirk in a smile.

"You should not use such vulgar words, child."

"I use the ones I know." My answer is simple. Arthur pats my head and I decide to let him touch me. Feder patted my head sometimes when he was drunk. Other times I was forced to dodge his axe. I do not believe Arthur would toss his sword at me.

"Your English is very good. Who taught you?"

"My mother. She was not a very good Saxon."

"And your father?" I feel itchy in my skin at his questions. Will he not like me because of Feder? There is no running from those bright eyes.

"He was a very, very good Saxon, but I am not even sure he is my real father."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he was my mother's husband, but he shared her with others." Arthur's face grows weary with sorrow that I do not understand. It is like a whole other language and my hands are full with these two. He brushes the hair from my eyes with a sad smile.

"Why do you pace?" I blurt curiously. Arthur's laugh is warm. I like it.

"Because I never wish to stop walking."

"Not even to sleep?"

"Only with one eye closed, but you must shut them both, child." And I am tired just from watching him walk. My eyes are heavy. I try to close just one of them, but they are a pair. What the right does, the left does as well. Arthur spins me around, his big hands on my shoulders, and gives me a gentle nudge in the direction of the camp.

"I can…I can walk for you, just for a little bit," I mumble weakly. When he doesn't answer, I stumble away. Maybe walking is a man's job and not a little runt's. Lady Azar is back when I return. She could be dead if it weren't for the puffs of air turning to frost above her slightly parted lips. I curl up next to her, overcome with exhaustion. Now that she is here, I can rest at ease. Madar always slept with her arms around me. Instead, I twist mine around Lady Azar. She needs a Madar of her own.

"Sweet dreams, Helena," Lady Azar murmurs. I'm asleep before I can even wonder who Helena is. The feeling of security lulls me far away. Arthur feridan. Arthur walks. I close both eyes.

* * *

**PiscesWeb25: **Ooo, don't judge Elva too quickly. She may be surprising...but not any time soon! She won't make much more of an appearance until the sequel. Bishop Germanius, on the other hand, yeah...you'll probably hate him.

**A/N: **Next chapter might take a while to post, but I have high hopes for it. Forewarning, it's going to be super sad [I think]. Things will be revealed and there might possibly be an unexpected Sera-Lancelot moment...just maybe. I really don't know! haha. Anyways, thanks to all my readers&reviewes. Keep up the good work and maybe I will as well ;D

Oh yeah, and I apologize for the overwheming amount of POV changes in this chapter. I know its a bit scattered, but I didn't know how else to fit everything in. Don't hate me!


	14. Chapter 14

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing you may recognize, and everything that you do not.

* * *

"_One thing is clear to me._

_You can't know everything you'd like to know._

_You can't do everything you'd like to do._

_You can't read everything you'd like to read._

_You must hold onto some things and let go of others._

_Learning to make that choice is one of the big lessons of this life."_

_-Unknown_

**FOURTEEN**

~Seraphina~

Dagonet fussed like an ornery hen when I declared that Eoforhild and I were going to bathe before we rode out on the last leg of our journey. I've never seen the generally placid knight with his metaphorical feathers so ruffled. I thought I'd been doing a fair job of concealing the lingering sickness that infiltrates deep inside my bones every now and again. Slight fevers leave me sweating oceans in the frigid weather and a deep cough has firmly nestled itself within the shelter of my sore lungs. However, I only cough when no one is listening and most times my unusual flush has been discarded as just another embarrassed blush. For with Lancelot's unscrupulous actions, I have more than enough cause for mortification.

Dagonet isn't fooled by my feigned health. With one encompassing glance and a rough hand placed to my simmering forehead, he knew of the ill state of my being and alerted Arthur. Even Galahad, who I have done a beautiful job of avoiding since our spat, erupted into a flurry of overactive concern. It took the better part of an hour to convince them I wasn't in any immediate danger of keeling over, cold and dead. Then it was another hour before Arthur finally agreed to let me bathe. Honestly, how a simple dip in the creek can be turned into a mortal risk, I will never know.

Tristan calculates that we will arrive at Hadrian's wall sometime tonight, even if we keep a leisurely pace. I have no intention of making my debut into the real world covered in mud and slush. Lancelot sneered at my vanity. It's rich that he would be the one to poke fun! The pretty boy of the knights; with his handsome curls, darker than coals from Hell, his wicked eyes that raise fire in any woman they graze, that strong jaw, perfectly straight nose, the graceful way his lips dance when he speaks, as though partners caught in a teasing dance they part and come together once more, and…I don't know whether to cry or scream, so I decide upon middle ground and kick a clod of dirt.

Eoforhild peers at me curiously as she shamelessly slips lose of her tattered skirts. Was I ever that free? She seems unaware that she is bare to the world as she dips her little body in the tumbling water of our stream. I feel no qualms at claiming this stream as our own. There is no one here for as far as the eye can see. Which isn't very impressive due to the thick veil of languid trees. I know Arthur and the others are only a few yards through that curtain, but I feel alone in this place. Solitude is something I had nearly forgotten. Even Eoforhild's presence is just a light handprint on my mind.

I hesitate at the bank of the creek, barely skimming my toes along the freezing water. Eoforhild paddles on her back, giggling joyfully to herself, and allowing her bright hair to spread freely around her, like fire on water. She's untroubled by the cold. I assume where she comes from baths are never heated.

I tug my cloak about my shoulders tightly, suddenly regretting this decision. Perhaps Dagonet was right and I should return to camp just as dirty as when I left. Oh, that would be a scene. After fighting for this trivial indulgence stubbornly, I can't very well realize the errors of my ways now. Pride. That's what this is all about when you reach the heart of the matter. I've spent too much time with Lancelot, a prouder man I've never met. I must face the Romans, my kindred by blood, with my head held high. I will not have their first impression of me be that of a sniveling, little girl with dirt so caked upon my skin that I could pass for a dessert woman and burrs adorning my hair.

With a resigned sigh, I allow my cloak to flutter to the ground. At least there is no snow here. The grass is brittle against the soft undersides of my bruised feet. I have traveled too far. Next, I untie the leather belt knotted at my waist. My borrowed breeches, much too large, collect around my ankles and I kick them off in the most inelegant manner. The baggy tunic slaps against my thighs when a chilling breeze brushes past. My clammy fingers falter as I unlace the strings at the neck of the tunic. I pause before lifting the filthy garment over my head. Eoforhild is oblivious as she continues to flit through the water.

I inspect every nook and hidden corner of our silent woodland bathhouse. Nothing lurks beneath the shade of those trees. Before I can change my mind, I whip the tunic over my head and toss it aside. My gaze wanders to the mystery that was once my own body. Unbidden tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Who is this monster, this twisted and foreign creature?

I have been possessed by change. The girl I once was has melted with the northern snow, swallowed by this greedy island. My soul has been chewed, devoured, and spit up; leaving me to sort through the pile of waste in order to create something even remotely resembling humanity. I have been purged by life, but to see the visible process written for anyone to witness in flesh and bone disfigurement is more of a shock than I expected.

Bruises bloom like roses across my skin. When we were children, Alex and I found pictures in the clouds. Now I search for them in the mottled blemishes. They're all different, each a testament to how they came to be. Some are pure violet, others ringed with green and yellow as though they've begun to mold, and the worst are velvety black. A bruise by any other name would not speak as loud. My stomach is carved inwards, only slightly, but enough to bring a fresh wave of vain tears. I trace the introverted dip in disgust. My fingers move delicately over papery skin, too thin, to chaffed inner thighs caked with dried blood from too many days of hard riding without protective armor such as the knight's are blessed to wear. It is odd that I never noticed the pain. My body is distorted and not once did I know the extent of my injuries.

Where is the girl who rode to the creek with her brother and listened to tall tales of Artorius Castus and his men? Where is the girl who still ran to her mother's sweet embrace when nightmares plagued her dreams? Is she somewhere buried beneath this stranger's body and mind? Was I ever beautiful, at least unscarred? I hold my palms to catch the light and strangle a sob at the angry, red lines embedded across them, old wounds enflamed from gripping the reigns too hard. I sink to the muddy ground and bury my face in those disfigured hands.

I am already withering away. I am not strong like Arthur and his knights. My petty lessons have been a waste. My body aches from the weight of this trek and tonight it will be over. What awaits me at Hadrian's Wall? I do not expect a fanfare or welcome arms. Perhaps they will disown me. And where shall I go? I cannot remain Arthur's burden. His debt to my father has been paid a hundred times over. Galahad has jested about taking me to Sarmatia, but we both know it is a foolish joke. I cannot leave Briton now that my heart has become one with the people of this land. I am bound here by sorrow and duty. A duty I do not know how to carry through! Perhaps I could become Lancelot's consort, fed out of the pocket of his lust, but what could he desire in a beast such as me? Even so, he'll return to his home with the rest of them. Arthur will become a hero in Rome. And I? Seraphina Marie Petraliphas, daughter of Konstantinos, the bastard Princessa, and the exiled orphan. Where shall I go?

"Lady?" Eoforhild's wispy voice comes from miles away in my mind, though she is crouched before me. She lifts my face and holds it in her tiny hands. Her umber eyes are overflowing with confusion.

"You are sad," she whispers questioningly. "But you are almost home, are you not?" I am ashamed to cry before a child who has probably seen more atrocities than me.

"My home is behind me." It is a vague memory that bites into me when I toe the line of moving on. It won't let go and it won't remain to give me comfort either.

"All baby birds must leave the nest and fly," Eoforhild says sagely. Advice from a child, a Saxon offspring no less, is what I have come to. Yet her little hands are cool against my feverish cheeks. I let her tuck my hair behind my ears, feeling as though our roles have been switched. Did Arthur intend for me to care for the child or for the child to care for me?

"I do not know who I am," I sob. Eoforhild surprises me when she reaches out to touch one of the rosy bruises on my bony hip. I am not embarrassed by my nudity, but by my exposed past and pain I've tried so hard to hide. The child turns, revealing her bare back. I gasp when I see the twisted scar sewn into her lily white flesh, knotted directly over her spine. Tentatively, I touch the tough muscle tissue bunched beneath the dark mark. She does not flinch.

"What happened to you?" I stutter.

"I was not a son." Eoforhild shrugs, as though this is nothing of importance. She faces me again and takes my trembling hand in hers. I allow her to lead me to the creek. My body is numbed by the icy water instantly. It crystallizes my blood and the tears upon my face. Eoforhild keeps her fragile fingers stitched through mine, almost protectively.

"Close your eyes," she orders in her high strung soprano voice. I obey. The world fades away like the last rays of summer sun on a long day. I let go as Eoforhild begins to hum a whimsical tune. The grime on my skin flows away with the oblivious current of the stream. I wonder if it will carry all the way out to the sea. Will it wash up upon the shores of their beloved Sarmatia? Or will it sink to an aquatic grave with the bones of shipwrecks and adventurous sailors who are no closer to returning home than I am? My pain is drifting. My feet sink into the mud of the stream bottom. I squish my toes together to feel the cool ooze squelch.

I imagine letting this stream take me away as well. I've always wanted to see the ocean and to taste the salt. I could forget this island. I could forget Sarmatia and even Rome. Who needs land? Perhaps my legs would turn to fins and I could dance with the sea nymphs from father's myths. Or sing with the cold-hearted sirens, for I now understand the pleasures they receive from seeing death.

It is a beautiful, and a terrible, play, where in every act the curtain closes over and over and over again. But you can't turn away from the sinuous waves of red velvet, the swing of golden tassels, and the mystery of actors faces hidden from view time and time again before you could so much as catch a gleam in their eyes. I have never seen a play, but Papa spoke of them from his Roman days. He spoke of great arenas where men battled lions, gladiators fiercer than any the likes we've seen here, and wild beasts that have yet to be named. Coliseums of death. And people cheer because the spilling of crimson blood on golden sand is beautiful. The flash of a lion's claws as they rip open hearts is majestic. We cheer.

Then I remember Helena growing cold and Mama's blood staining the snow like the glass in the windows of great, Roman churches. I see Alex's and Papa's dismantled bodies, missing eyes and souls. I hear Theo's wails in the deepest depths of my sore body. I feel ash on my skin from fighting in a cemetery of villagers. Not even the glacial water can wash it away. Revenge and death. Power and death. PEACE and death. The story ends the same, with closed curtains.

I have no script. Nothing has been rehearsed and the crowd is tittering impatiently for me to act. Act like I know what I'm doing or what I hope to accomplish. Act as though I have any idea at all. I condemned Lancelot for having no purpose, but perhaps he is wiser than I. What use is a purpose, or a mission, when all you can do is see the outcome on the glassy surface of a mirror, or stream, but cannot manage to make your own face match the reflection? I want to run as far as the sea, but I'm shackled to this stage, and I must do something before the audience begins to throw rotten vegetables in response to my poor performance.

I open my eyes and breathe the world in again. It's too large for my eyes and my stomach. I'd like to vomit the universe and have no part of it. But that never was an option. I can't turn my back like Lancelot and the others. This is not my home, but it is my responsibility. I must fight. I must act until the curtain falls and no one will ever manage to catch the gleam in my actor eyes, because I'll close them as soon as I'm given the chance. Until then…

Until then I go forward to Hadrians Wall as I promised Lancelot I would. That is as far ahead as I can see, but I feel further. Perhaps I'll go to Rome and speak to the Emperor himself on these people's behalf. I could go with Arthur, not as his charge, but as his companion. Or maybe I'll stay at the wall and continue my training so that I can fight side by side with the soldiers and rid this land of Saxons. It's a guessing game, but I know I'll do something. I'm through with running away. From my memories and from myself.

Eoforhild's lips are trembling and blue, but she's kept her silence. I squeeze her hand and nod, mutely asserting my reawakening. Together, we wade to the bank, cleaner than before. And possibly prouder.

* * *

Bundled in our cloaks, Eoforhild and I recline along the dry grass lining the stream. Our damp hair fanned out behind us to be dried into icicles by the blustery wind that paints our faces with color. The knights will come looking for us soon. We've been here longer than the time Arthur allotted. Already the sun is hanging pregnant in the sky. I'm not ready to return though. We stretch out this moment of calm before the storm that I've felt brewing in my sick bones for days. My heart is heavy with apprehension and lingering touches from my break down. Unease. I have come to trust my instincts when it comes to this particular emotion.

"Why do you think your people have changed their minds?" I ask thoughtfully. Tristan is positive the Saxon army is now retreating. It's put Arthur on edge, all of us actually. I'm thankful they haven't come for me again. Apparently I'm not as coveted a prize as it seemed before. Saxons and Woads both have left us alone. But why? There must be a reason. I'm just unsure as to if I really care to hear it.

Eoforhild shrugs her narrow shoulders and peers at me wide-eyed. Of course she wouldn't know. She devours this world with those vast eyes. I had forgotten for a short time today that she's barely more than a babe. And what do infants know of war? What do I even know? Every day it become painfully clear how inexperienced I am at life. Even Eoforhild carries herself better than I do it seems.

"I overheard Feder speaking to another of the warriors not long before you found me," Eoforhild begins hesitantly. She glances over her shoulder quickly, as though she expects her father to be lurking there in wait to catch her at treason.

"He said they were going to wipe all the bloody Romans out of this place. He said they would rape your women, kill your men, and use your children as slaves." the impassive way in which she repeats her father's words is unnerving. Again I wonder what her life has been like.

"Then they must have intended to broach Hadrians Wall!" I cry, tugging at the ends of my damp hair in frustration. Eoforhild shrugs again.

"I didn't hear any more. Feder caught me listening." She winces and I decide not to inquire into the depths of her punishment. Eoforhild turns to me expectantly. "What was your feder like?" At first I cower from the subject. It takes all of my might to be brave and answer such a simple question.

"He was a king, a laughing king."

"And he never whipped you?"

"Of course not!" Eoforhild wrinkles her nose in confusion. She ponders over the apparent oddity of my answer for a minute before speaking again.

"He was not angry that you were a daughter?"

"I had a brother and two sisters. He loved us each regardless." Now Eoforhild looks blown away. She narrows her eyes suspiciously.

"Three daughters?" she exclaims. "He must have been a cursed man."

"My father always said he was blessed by God," I state, a bit defensively. It never occurred to me that Papa would have wanted more sons. Eoforhild scratches the back of her neck uncomfortably.

"Then your god is a very odd one. It must be difficult for him to take care of everyone and everything all of the time. Does no one help him?"

"I…well….God doesn't…I've never thought about it that way before." Eoforhild seems disappointed by my lack of theological thought. It's difficult enough to balance life without asking the "big questions". I find myself praying, a practice that has become more of a habit than a belief. The familiar Latin verses slip past like oaths and curses. I've pleaded for Galahad's safety a million times over and I've prayed for the dead we've left behind, but never myself. If Eoforhild's right, God must be too busy as it is, and my own selfish wishes don't deserve to be granted. I gave away my salvation when I threw my crucifix into Lancelot's reluctant hands. I wonder what he did with that burden…or that blessing.

"Lady?" Eoforhild calls to me timidly.

"Hm," I mumble, drudging behind in my thoughts of Heaven and Hell, and unaware of her intrepid expression until she continues. Eoforhild twists the fabric of her skirt until it wrinkles even more than it already was.

"When we reach Hadrians Wall, I want to stay with you." The last piece of her sentence comes out all in a flustered rush. I'm taken aback by the unwavering sincerity in her nervous eyes. She juts out her chin defiantly, as though daring me to send her away. I'd laugh if things were different. As it is, regret yips at me ruthlessly.

"I'm not sure that's possible," I admit grudgingly. What part does Eoforhild have in my future? I see no path that would allow me to keep her. And I am not prepared to raise a child. My destiny is directing me elsewhere, regardless the undeniable attachment I've come to feel for the child. Eoforhild looks desperate and lost. I wish I could reach out to her now, like she did to me this morning, but the bitter truth keeps me from doing so. I cannot give her false promises.

"Do you not want me?" Eoforhild whispers, her eyes downcast. All of her life she has gone unwanted. That much I can deduce from what she has told me. She was no son. I lift her doleful eyes to mine.

"It is not a matter of what I want. If I had a choice, I would keep you. I would probably follow Galahad to Sarmatia and leave this all behind." Eoforhild scrunches her round face in distaste.

"I do not think I would like to live in Sarmatia with the barbarians." Her expression softens into resignation. "But if you went, then so would I. We stay together, always." Her pint-sized determination is a boulder upon my heart. I can't bring myself to make her see the reality of our situation. Eoforhild's fate is as unclear as my own. We have fought to reach Hadrians Wall. Now that we are wallowing in its shadow, I'd rather not cross the border.

"Always is a very long time," I sigh. "I'm not sure if my poor soul could handle an eternity." Before Eoforhild can make the reply that is practically sparking from her tongue, Dagonet's unmistakable figure appears through the trees. Ah, my knight in shining armor, come to rescue me from uncomfortable conversations with wide-eyed children.

I wave enthusiastically, beckoning him to join us. Dagonet's calm company is welcome on this tumultuous day. He sits on the bristly grass and without a word of greeting he places the back of his hand to my forehead. A frown chisels across his already stern features and he quells my initial gratitude with a reproving glare.

"You are burning," he states.

"Aye, in the fires of Hades. Tell me something I have yet to learn." Eoforhild giggles into the crook of her elbow. She's not so tightly coiled in Dagonet's presence anymore. Though she still huddles close to me with her skittish gaze never leaving the knight, she no longer glowers. Perhaps Dagonet would take her in as he did Lucan, his adopted son. I have no doubt he is a wonderful father, judging by the way he frets. Even now he's giving me a familiar parental look of solemn concern, not to be waved away by my nonchalance.

"If it will ease your mind, I shall allow you to sentence me to a week of bed rest when we reach the fort," I promise. Dagonet's eyes sparkle with exasperation. He doesn't believe me. Well, I don't exactly believe me either.

Eoforhild tugs at my arm. She perches on her knees so that she can rest her lips close to my ear. Her hot breath tickles my cheek.

"May I ask him a question?" she whispers seriously. I bite back a laugh at her childish games.

"Dagonet, Lady Eoforhild wishes your permission to ask a question," I declare in a dignified voice, while sending a teasing wink at the little girl peaking over my shoulder at the soft-hearted knight. Dagonet grins encouragingly as he nods his consent. Eoforhild inhales deeply. She pulls her shoulders back and tries to drape herself in an air of maturity.

"Will they kill me?" Her brusque question wipes away any trace of amusement. Instinctually, I clasp her wrist possessively, but it is Dagonet who speaks.

"Who do you speak of, girl?" he queries gently.

"The Romans at the great wall. I have heard stories of what they do to our people."

"Of what they do to your people?" I blurt in astonishment. All I have ever seen is the destruction left behind by the Saxons, but never Rome laying waste to one of their innocent villages. Dagonet tosses me a warning glance and I say no more.

"Arthur will not allow that to happen," he states firmly. A grateful smile dawns on Eoforhild's pale lips. I release my grip on her bony wrist.

"Eoforhild, go fetch your shoes. It is neigh on time we left." Without complaint, the little girl tumbles back to the bank of the stream where her shoes have been discarded. I keep one eye on her as she searches for a missing left boot, and focus the other on Dagonet.

"War does not affect one side only," he grumbles, before I can so much as utter a syllable. "Everyone loses someone. None are without guilt."

"But the Roman army does not lay waste to harmless villages!" I protest.

"How would you know, Lady Seraphina?" His voice is never sharp, but now it carries a tired edge.

"I know because…because…" He's right. Until a month ago, I knew nothing of this war. Dagonet places a heavy hand upon my slumped shoulder. I shake him off in frustration.

"Saxons, Woads, Romans!" I snap. "I do not know which are the enemy."

"It all depends on what you're fighting for." Dagonet's wise words do nothing to ease my confusion. I know I loathe the Saxons, but what of their children, like Eoforhild? I cannot bring myself to hate her, when she is just another victim. The Woads set my blood to a boil as they have attacked my protectors, yet all the while claiming it is for my own benefit! Then there is Rome. The ones who exiled us, imprisoned the knights I have come to care for, and conquered this land as a prize without considering the people who were born on this soil. But it is my father's country and he loved it dearly.

"I'm fighting for peace," I confess hesitantly. It is such a contradictory thing to say.

"Then they are all your enemy," Dagonet informs me casually.

"And you?" I search Dagonet's distant expression for anything worth clinging to. He's such a difficult man to understand, but there is always a flicker of compassion in his stony eyes. This man who has cared for my many wounds with such tender hands and patience.

"I am your friend," he professes without a doubt. Dagonet is not one for fancy words. If he says he is my friend, than I know it to be true. Eoforhild returns with both feet tucked safely inside her boots. She takes my hand and drags me to my feet. I let her lead me through the dense trees to the campsite, Dagonet never far behind us. I smile thankfully over my shoulder at him. My burden does not seem as unbearable when I know that not everyone is an enemy. Perhaps I can save the world after all. Well, at least Briton.

* * *

~Galahad~

I followed them to the stream. No one knew. Its remarkable how I'm able to slip away unnoticed at times. Arthur has never been so wired. The Saxon's actions have left him confounded and our commander does not bode well with mysteries. For a man who places so much of his life in the cradling arms of faith and strikes with passion, he can also be painfully rational when it comes to deducing the enemy. They are Saxons and they follow the pattern, until now. Arthur cannot wrap his mind around the idea of spontaneity. He is a solid man, and as such, he does not understand whims. We are all distressed by their change of course, like a flock of vultures fleeing from their hearty meal of rotting flesh on a silver platter battle field. It makes no sense.

But I have other matters to plague my mind, ones that ring closer to the heart. We shall reach the wall tonight. I will be forced to make a decision. To stay or to go? So I followed them in the hopes of finding an answer. Sera and I have not spoken sense our feud. Stubborn and proud, she won't bridge the gap between us. I'm not sure if I should leave our friendship in this place of grudging offense. It was my intention to steer her away from a possible danger. Just as I saved her from the Saxon, back when she was only an echo of the lost child I have been, and at times still am, before she became my friend. Lancelot is another threat. Why can't she see that?

At first I was ashamed. I watched as she scanned the trees for predators or watchful eyes. She never glanced up, not to where I was perched in the canopy upon limbs that groaned dangerously in protest to the burden of my weight. Then she shed her travel worn clothes as though they were her armor, and without them she was left vulnerable to the arrow of a hidden gaze. My hidden gaze. I began to leave. Is it not enough that I've insulted her morality, and then I had to trespass on her privacy?

Then her sob carried across the crackling wind and my guilt drained away. Sera looked at herself, her expression indiscernible from the distance between us, but nevertheless I understood. I remember the careful way in which I inspected myself after our first mission. I recall the intense desolation when I realized that I had not only lost my family and my homeland, but that I had also misplaced myself. There are times when I still marvel at the storybook of scars on my body. It is a tragedy, but I've read it so many times now it barely stings.

Sera was felled by the weight of discovery. Someday she'll understand that this is who she is now. She'll come to terms with every bruise, perforation, and cluster of scarred tissue tensed beneath the surface of hard skin. All of us have learned, but the lesson is freshest in my mind. As the youngest, the process was longer for me. There are those who brag of their wounds. I never have. None of my brothers have fallen prey to the habit either. We wear them with a quiet pride and loathing.

I watched the Saxon child comforting her and knew that it should have been me. I have always had my brothers. Even with my friendship, Sera carries so much of this transformation alone. Perhaps she has confided fragments of her pain to us, but the finished project is for her eyes alone. Can I help her anymore? I have nothing to offer but friendship and sympathy birthed from understanding.

I left before she saw me. Now I join the others with no more answers than when I left. Arthur travels from one end of the clearing to the other, and then back again. It's all he does, pondering with every step. I know that habit of his. Just as I know why Bors mutters lullabies under his breath, mimicking Vanora's made-up, nonsense songs. Or why Tristan is absent, probably scouting ahead even though Arthur has not asked him to. Dagonet has trumped off in the direction of the stream in search of Sera and the girl. He frets like a woman. Gawain sharpens his axe absently, his mouth set in a grim line. And then there is Lancelot, who stands motionless, almost blending with our surroundings. He watches Arthur with an expression I cannot define; concern, affection, regret.

I am not the only one with unpleasant ultimatums to make. Our sentence is coming to an end, and while relief and joy simmer in our hearts, a foreboding looms overhead as well. Fifteen years is too long to let go in a day's time. An odd sort of safety sunk its claws into us. We have been slaves, but we have known what the next day would hold; bloodshed and brotherhood. But what of tomorrow? Freedom is as imposing as it is coveted. Our lives will once more be ours and ours alone. We will have the gift and curse of making our own decisions. I never realized how troublesome free will could be.

"Where'd you wander off to?" Gawain grunts idly. All I can seem to hear is the indignant screech of his axe blade as it's ground into a fine edged death warrant.

"Duty called."

"Must have been some duty. You were gone for a good while." Gawain inspects me suspiciously, but doesn't push when I remain unwilling to say more. We're silent for a bit. Gawain sets his axe aside with an expressionless sigh. He rolls his shoulders to loosen the joints. I can't remember what it was like to not feel a constant tension in my muscles, always a subtle ache.

"Not quite like we expected, eh?" Gawain chuckles, scanning the others gloomy moods.

"Are you sad it's over?"

"Hell no!" His quick answer surprises me. Gawain folds his arms over his chest and leans back against the trunk of a bended tree. "Don't get me wrong, I'm glad it's over, but it's strange to think that come morning will be free men. I'm not sure where I'll go, Galahad."

"Home," I suggest.

"Oh, maybe someday. I know you'd be content to live in Sarmatia the rest of your damned life. I'd like to travel though. Perhaps see the desserts across the ocean."

"You don't like sand." I remind him casually.

"It's just an idea. I may find some exotic woman to wed and set up a little palace of my own, sand and all. I could be the king of my own oasis." I roll my eyes at his fanciful dreams. I've heard it all before and it's strange that I may never hear it again.

"Right, and Bors will become Pope of the Roman church with all of his little bastards as Bishops."

"Not on my life!" Bors growls from across the clearing, drawn momentarily from his sulking.

"It's more likely than you ever making a proper woman out of Vanora," Lancelot jests, joining the conversation to my disappointment. He comes to sit by Gawain and me.

"As if you have room to talk," I snort bitterly. Both Gawain and Lancelot glance at me in confusion, but I don't bother to explain myself.

"Tell me Galahad, will you take up a lovely Sarmatian wench once this is over or will you remain celibate for the remainder of your days?" Lancelot inquires. His lips twisted into a provoking smile. Does he know how he baits my anger? I do not give him the pleasure of an answer. Already my temper has begun to boil. Gawain senses the rising danger and places an admonishing hand upon my clenched fist.

"Or perhaps you have set your eyes on a lovely Roman Princessa." If the blood weren't roaring so loudly in my ears, pounding in my temples, I may have heard the soft voice of reason. Lancelot flicks a speck of unseen dirt from his breeches nonchalantly.

"At least I have only set my eyes upon her and not my hands." Lancelot meets my fiery glare with an impassive smirk. I wait, teetering on the edge of control, in the hopes that he will deny my accusation.

"Jealous, Galahad?" His casual tone is the final tally.

"Have you no shame?" I cry, leaping to my feet swiftly. Lancelot remains at ease. He stretches out his legs and shrugs.

"No," he replies lightly. "Should I?"

"She is Arthur's charge," I hiss. Lancelot grimaces and I know I've struck a nerve. "Sera is not another of your conquests."

"I have not gone against her will in anyway nor made her my _conquest_."

"Will you wed her?" I ask impulsively. A thick silence meets my words as Lancelot's already dinted composure succumbs to wide-eyed bewilderment. Gawain nearly topples over, his mouth rounded in a ridiculous exclamation of shock.

"What nonsense have you got rattling around in your head, boy?" Gawain stammers.

"Nonsense? Is doing right by a woman such nonsense? But of course," I snarl, focusing intently on Lancelot. "You have no qualms in sullying a woman's innocence and discarding her when she is no longer of use."

"Sully her innocence?" Lancelot repeats, slightly confounded. "I have hardly touched the silly Princessa."

"Now you are so bold as to deny your crimes!" I roar. My outburst catches the others attention. Arthur's pacing ceases, but I am beyond caring.

"Cool your heels," Gawain grumbles as Lancelot rises so that we are on the same level.

"That hot head of yours has made you delusional," Lancelot growls dangerously.

"Then what excuse do you have for your behavior? I will not allow you to tramp over Sera as you do the others."

"Aye, her father may rest in peace knowing that a stupid git like you is here to defend her honor. But perhaps you would do better to learn a bit of sense. It does no one any good when you leap to hasty conclusions."

"Do not speak to me as though I am a child!"

"Then cease acting as one."

"Galahad!" Arthur's resounding voice issues a clear order just by speaking my name. For the first time in fifteen years, I do not heed his call. Lancelot groans in mingled surprise and pain as I punch him soundly in the gut. The dark knight narrows his eyes and grabs my wrist as I strike again. But Hell hath no fury like a man who is being devoured by bitter confusion.

He is unable to block my volley of sloppy attacks. Within a moment, we're tangled together in the graceless art of unarmed combat. I'm reminded of our younger days when we would wrestle in the yard. Lancelot always won. Not much has changed. I'm driven by my temper, unsure who I despise more; myself or him. Vaguely, I'm aware of the others struggling to separate us, but to no avail. Neither Lancelot nor I hold back. He fights with a pent up fury to match my own. This goes beyond virtue to the very core of our frustrations.

Fifteen years and I'm eating dirt as I'm pummeled into the ground by one of my brothers. I'd like to rip his bloody head off. Yes, fifteen years of slavery and on our last day we fall apart. The weight of our bondage has become too much to bear. We crave freedom and are frightened by it. So I fight for Sera now, knowing that I might not be able to bring myself to do so come tomorrow. I fight to lessen the guilt of having such a selfish conscious. I should stay with her! But I can't. My heart, broken so long with homesickness, begs to be free.

Then her voice sounds clearly through the veil of repressed tempers and swinging fists. I feel her cool, quivering hand clasp my shoulder.

"Stop this!" Sera cries, placing herself between Lancelot and me. She rests one hand against my heaving chest and the other to Lancelot's. Shivering between us with repentance glimmering in her eyes, I'm forced to turn away in shame. If only I were brave enough to stay with her, instead of a coward running home with his tail between his legs.

* * *

~Eoforhild~

They move swiftly and no one sees them.

All eyes focus on Lady Azar, blazing furiously between the two barbarians. One as frightful and dark as the gods and the other trembling with unrequited fury. Enge. Trouble. It is everywhere today; on the wings of a hawk, the muffled omen of an oddly shaped shadow, and the drumming of my heart. I know these drums of my people, even when they are silent. I hear them in scuffled feet over damp leaves on the forest floor and heavy breaths of anticipated murder. And the trouble was in Lady Azar's tears and the way she keeps one hand to each of the barbarian's hearts.

"There are other battles!" she cries. Unaware how close her words hit the mark. Oh, they do not see. But I do. Anjam; the end. Yet I have lost my voice. Of all the words I know, there are none to convey. They flit from my grasp with giddy winks like syllables I can't wrap my dry tongue around. There is no need.

HE crashes from the sky, leaping from the shade of a great tree. It is the man whose sword I remember clearly against my flesh. It is their scout. Quickly, I see that he has been made the prey. He stumbles forward, moving heavily, with one arm wrapped around his crooked side. His body bends into a question or an exclamation. Though eyes are glazed with pain from the blood spilling from between his clamped fingers, his voice is even.

"Saxons. Here." I am here. Lady Azar hisses. Her hands drop to her sides as Arthur parts his lips to issue an order and the other barbarians reach for their instruments of death. There is not time. I watch the arrow, fletched from my feder's tribe, soar past with purpose. It bites the earth between Arthur's parted feet.

A tick of shamidan, of confusion. It is all so fast, a blur to our eyes. I feel Arthur's life in the arrow still vibrating in its missed target of upturned earth. Then there are more. The skies open and arrows pour down. They tear and snap, hiss and moan. They plink against upraised shields. They drum death, death, death.

Before my eyes, my people swarm with barred teeth and sparkling metal. The initial crash of weapon striking weapon rings truer than true. Lady Azar is pushed aside by one of the barbarians. She falls to the mud and I lose her in the swell of war. Her soft-spoken friend with the fluid name I sometimes hold in my mouth, Dagonet, clutches a fistful of my dress. My feet leave a trail through the ground as he pulls me back. I kick and scream, trying to reach Lady Azar. We are together always and now I cannot see her. But his grip is iron. With one hand he fights and with the other he imprisons.

Dagonet. Dagonet. I could not hate a man more. He clasps me to his side until we are a single entity. His touch feels traitorous, but the blood of my people pooling at my feet does not stir my emotions. Only Lady Azar so lost and far away. I catch flashes of her only long enough to torment. Kala! Kala! Crying out! Lady of fire hidden by smoke.

"Naksounan!" I threaten to kill in my native language and I am overheard. He looks like my feder, but they all do. He pauses on his way to Arthur to find me in the chaos. Still a baby bird pinned by the wings and unable to fly to her makeshift nest in the form of a lady's grey eyes and madar's smell. We stand in the slip of time, connected irrevocably by bloodlines. And he comes with the look of a man on a quest to reclaim his treasure. I can see it all in his face, splattered with guts and hate. He will claim me as a rightful child of their nation. I am no son, but I am a daughter who may give birth to a thousand sons. Saxon blood is precious. It is not to be wasted in the hold of a soft-spoken barbarian.

Dagonet tosses me behind him as his axe crosses with the man's scythe. His hold never weakens as he fights and I never cease struggling. I will not go back to be a bandeh, a slave. They cannot have me and they cannot take Lady Azar either. She screams somewhere so close. Just as Dagonet falls. I am dragged into the hungry mud with him. We are sinking in the earth. Eaten by the eortha. I am buried beneath his body as he lies over me in a last attempt to protect. I am blind, deaf, and dumb! And dead. So many words tangle now in my mind.

Goft. _He said. _Beouad_. He is._ Schekest. _He breaks. _Dajed. _He is no more._

I breathe deeply and cough the mud from my lungs. Dagonet is motionless at my side. Our enemy lies empty at our feet with soulless eyes. Oh, how he still looks like Feder. Dagonet's damma, his blood, runs in rivers, entire oceans, from his body onto mine. We cleaned ourselves this morning only to drown in filth. I stay only long enough to see Dagonet's eyelids flutter and to whisper his gentle name, before leaving him to fate.

My feet sink, but I run. My lungs seer, but I scream.

"WE ARE TOGETHER ALWAYS!"

"_Always is a very long time. I'm not sure if my poor soul could handle an eternity." _

The ghost of her words answer. My poor soul cannot handle an eternity alone. She is all I have. Lady Azar is my asteouao. My existence. So I dive forth into the flailing of limbs and danger and The End's, not because she needs me, but because I need her.

They did not see them. I did. Now the drums are coming to possess me and I am afraid.

* * *

**PiscesWeb25: **Sorry, I didn't put in their moment. I underestimated how much building up it would take, but sometime in the 15th or 16th chapter. It's hard to balance their relationship without cheapening the actual plot of the story. I'm trying to make them go hand-in-hand.

**A/N: **Okay guys, reviews are seriously needed. I know...I know...it sounds so needy and pathetic. Over all, I write for myself, but it's such a boost when someone lets me know what they think! I'm not gonna beg though, haha. It's your choice and I'm not going to go cry if you don't :D Well, thanks for reading. Next chapter up...um...whenever I get it written.


	15. Chapter 15

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing that you recognize, and everything that you don't.

* * *

"_My punishment is greater than I can bear."_

_-Genesis iv. 13._

**FIFTEEN**

~Lancelot~

We reach for her at the same time, Galahad and I. Moments ago we could have killed one another, and now our minds flow in perfect synchronization. Narrowed on a single goal; shield her. Only he has a reason and I do not. Perhaps it's instinct that I should find myself calling out to her, the Princessa, and the girl whose life has never been a concern of mine. For Arthur, I have saved her. For myself, I have doomed her. But today, I grasp her tightly fisted hand for no other reason than life itself. Her life, continually hanging in the balance where the rest of us have been hung out to dry sense our very first breaths.

Her eyes swivel to Galahad, to me, as we hold her between us. She chose to stand here. I would have given her no thought had she not been directly in front of me, but as it is, she always finds a way to stumble across my path. I may try to push her away, but she's always been stubborn. And I'm discovering that I am weak.

It'd be a sin in any religion to say I love her. If anything, she's the tangible form of everything I hate. At first I thought I understood her, for revenge is comprehensible. Now I realize that I do not know her at all. Even now, arrows keeping us apart, she peers at me with hope filled orbs of a life I crave to decipher. What happened to the wildcat, blood thirsty child with desolate eyes? I can't allow Seraphina to die, because she has just remembered to live, and I would like to ask her how to go about finding that secret.

I let go of her only long enough to unsheathe the second of my twin swords. She takes it without a word. I wouldn't have heard her over the roar anyways. A moment turns to a year and a year to an eternity. Arthur is the first to meet them as they charge from the line of trees, slicing carelessly so that the bark bleeds sap. I can smell it everywhere, mingling with the familiar scent of spilt blood as Arthur makes the first kill.

The three of us wait. For once, I am in no hurry to throw myself into the collision. It is enough to watch and I realize that I have never been a witness before. We soak it in with unspoken reverence, all of us coiled and ready, yet serene in the shade of death. Galahad's knuckles bleed freely. His grip on Seraphina so unbreakable that he's breaking himself to keep it. I don't think she's conscious of either of us.

When the first Saxon reaches us, his crude weapon just a piece of twisted iron, I move as though killing is what my body was designed to do. Seraphina is pushed aside. Somewhere far away in my mind, I recognize Galahad's wordless cry of loss. I cut through Saxon after Saxon, clinging to the desperate plea that all of our lessons have not been in vain.

This is her moment. Perhaps it is not the grand revenge she once desired, but it is the one she will receive and it is the one she will be content with. I can understand that at least. People change. They grow, but they always hold onto those first breaths taken. I don't search for her in the crowd, regardless the new found longing to see her alive when this is over. It takes all of my restraint to let her go with the things we have taught her. We cannot protect her forever. Arthur will have to understand that. Galahad as well.

I fight side by side with the young knight. I lose track of how many times his blade comes to my rescue or mine to his. This is as close to love as I'll ever confess. We slice and steal and do not regret. We murder these Saxons in cold blood. Seraphina is inclined to believe that I have no heart. Perhaps I have led her to that conclusion. I do not shed tears. I shed blood. It is my way of mourning those lost in this war none of us wish to fight.

Somehow I am separated from Galahad. Arthur takes his place. We're outnumbered. This may be one battle we cannot win, but Arthur strikes with out defeat. He is my God, as much as he'd scold me for saying so. I would rather be here, at his side, then anywhere else. Forget Sarmatia, the Princessa, and freedom itself. Give me Arthur. Give me something to live for. The ties holding us together have been pulled taut by this journey. I've placed so much distance between us to give my guilty heart a respite. I have betrayed him a million times over, in thought and deed, but never once in heart.

"RUS!" Bors bellows from the other side of our turmoil. He beats his chest, even with four Saxons bearing down on him. Gawain repeats his cry. This is us. A battle cry. The possibility of freedom. A church under one man.

"Rus," I chant. My arm grows heavy as time stretches on. We will lose. I can feel it in my very bones. On the day we would have received our salvation, we will die sinners and slaves and brothers. It is not enough, but it is more than nothing. With Arthur, anything is possible.

But then, Excalibur slips from his hand. Suddenly, I am too far away. We all are. How did I let myself wander so far from him? Was it the heat of war, the sense of belonging, or the taste of genuine fear? I watch helplessly as our god drops to his knees and the image is blasphemy.

Seraphina's cross burns my breast just as she flashes in the corner of my eye. Never in my life have I prayed to anything. Today, I pray to her. Save him with what I have taught you so that I may save him as well. God must not perish.

* * *

~Seraphina~

The weight of Lancelot's sword is familiar, even as it causes me to sink down into the thick mud churned by boots and internal workings that leak from the bodies of already torn men. I do not pity them. I burn with more than fever.

In the throes of chaos, the untimely explosion of Heaven and Hell, I find that I'm paired with Tristan as he bleeds. I'm not given the chance to worry as they swarm around us hungrily. Their eyes wild and untamed. It nearly frightens me to think that I've seen an echo of that danger in Eoforhild. And it is worse when I wonder where she is now. I cannot see her as Tristan and I loop around one another. I realize that I am more of a hindrance to the injured scout than an aide. With my still clumsy movements, he's forced to intervene in my skirmishes more often than not. Yet I kill. I feel powerful. There are no thoughts of peace or even revenge. It's as though I'm taking a drink from a cool well and my throat has been parched for a lifetime. It is unexplainable. I'm happy enough not to be confused, for there is nothing to second guess when it comes to survival.

Then the senseless slaughter fades away, taking instinct with it. I can hear Excalibur thud against the ground and feel the vibrations carry to my feet. There once was a time when I ordered Arthur never to bow to me. It breaks my heart to see him kneeling before a Saxon. Tristan would be too slow. His injury is a burden. The others are millions of steps away and I am close. Too close and so close that I can see the resigned set of Arthur's jaw.

"Seraphina!" Tristan calls sharply. But he cannot stop me. The man towering above Arthur is a monster only heard of in legends. His axe curves down, leaving a line of broken promises in its wake. My father saved Arthur. Arthur saved me. Now I must join the unavoidable cycle. Lancelot's sword tremors in my hand as it clashes with the blade of a Saxon axe. I wonder if the weapon's twin shakes as well. Can Lancelot feel it? With a strength I do not posses, but find buried in the dregs of my weary body, I force the beast away from Arthur step by step.

Strange sounds escape my lips; yelps, cries, incomprehensible curses, and a Sarmatian battle call I have no right to join in on. I'm matched blow for blow. No one can rescue me, the damsel in distress, now. An impenetrable wall of Saxons have formed around my partner and I. Flashes of peripheral vision show me Galahad struggling to break their ranks, Gawain and Bors cutting their way through anything and everything, and Lancelot firmly planted by his recovered commander once more.

So this is the story people will tell of me and my tragic end. Is it noble? I wouldn't know. I have accomplished nothing and that stings the most. Arthur has been rescued only to be slain by the overwhelming flood of enemies. When one falls, another seems to grow from his blood. As Lancelot's sword is finally knocked carelessly from my hand, I come to realize that I feel nothing. Galahad is screaming something. It's a shock when I realize it is my own name. I had forgotten that I was anything at all. The axe is falling. The curtain is closing. I do not wish to die. I've accepted my lack of a life.

Then flames penetrate the circle of warriors. I follow the flickering fire as it attacks my grim reaper. Eoforhild. I remember her again. Things begin to return dimly. She clings to his back and gouges her tiny fingers into the man's cold eyes. Digging deeper until she can extract his soul, if there ever was one. Eoforhild's mouth is wide in a silent scream. I retrieve Lancelot's sword and waste no time in plunging it deep within the man's gut. When he falls, the earth splits. He stares up at us. Of course a man with no eyes cannot actually stare and Eoforhild has left nothing for him to see with. Hollowed caverns where sight once resided.

"Thank-you," I gasp. It is not enough. It is all I have. Eoforhild folds into me, blood stained hands and all. I cradle her in my embrace, oblivious to the storm still surging. Something in the weather has changed though. A favorable breeze lessens the heat in the form of red, Roman capes. I see them march with an odd precision in such haphazard forests. It doesn't cross my mind to wonder how they knew we were here or in need of assistance. Roman soldiers, handfuls of them, added to our pitiful ranks. We are no longer outnumbered. We will live.

That thought is a tonic to the numb precaution I use to protect myself with. My defenses lower in relief and hope. The Saxons are retreating. I have no urge to follow them. In this moment my revenge is a distant memory. There is so much more to die for. I hold Eoforhild to keep me anchored here. My mind spirals and I tilt unsteadily.

"Never leave me again," Eoforhild sobs. I search for the words to console her, but surface empty handed. I simply cling tighter, but it isn't nearly tight enough. She screams and it burns with familiarity. So much like a baby's cry as it was torn from its mother's breast. I throw myself forward as Eoforhild is ripped from my arms by one of the few remaining Saxons. I claw at her wildly, leaving desperate scratches along her tender flesh. Her fiery hair swirls in my dazzled vision. It is so hard to stand. Lancelot's sword holds me back as I race after her, so I let it go.

Our hands touch briefly in grudging farewell. I clutch her wrist, not releasing even after the crunch of fragile bone fills the air. The Saxon stealing her from me snarls as he spins on his heel to bring his fist to my already disfigured face. Spots of light fill my vision. They illuminate Eoforhild's terror.

"Together always!" she screams, a plea for me alone. There are more of them now. I didn't notice that I am alone with the enemy until now. Roman soldiers and Sarmatian knights are far behind us. I'm always alone and they're taking my only hope at forgiveness. If I can just save Eoforhild to repay what I could not do for Helena. Two children that I always seem to be chasing; one in my dreams and memories and the other with my tired legs.

Together always.

One last touch before I fall too far behind. The others are lashing out at me, impeding my progress, and growling in a language I do not know, but can understand. They think that Eoforhild is theirs because she is a Saxon. Oh, how wrong they are. It is me she is reaching for. I can't stretch far enough to reclaim her. Damn blood and where one is supposed to belong. Eoforhild is mine.

Suddenly, I cease moving forward. My feet skim the ground in the same place, kicking up dirt, but I stay frozen. An unrelenting arm twines around my waist. The Saxons I have been chasing slip past, fleeing like kicked dogs from whence they came.

"It is no use!" Lancelot roars. I always knew it was him. Yet I continue to fight with everything left in me. There isn't much. Eoforhild disappears from my life as abruptly as she arrived. Lost forever. If it were not for him, I could bring her back to me. Why won't he let me save her? I send out her name as though it can make her return into my flailing arms. She is being torn from my womb, just as much my child, my sister, as any that should share my flesh. I have carried her in the deepest recesses of my heart. I have given birth to my reluctant love for her.

Eoforhild. Eoforhild. I don't know how long I rage until the fire fades into embers. My heart shatters. This pain that I swore never to feel again. Lancelot releases me when my body falls limp. I bury my face in the muddy ground as the strangled sobs take control. I shake until I vomit. I discard everything I've strived to attain.

Eoforhild. It seeps into my blood stream like the plague, turning me black from the inside out. Lancelot cradles me to him and I can't even bring myself to be angry with him. There is no room for anything other than darkness. He whispers words in my ear that mean nothing. He touches me and I can't feel a thing.

"Sera, Sera," he murmurs. I close my eyes and let Hell take me. Fires like Eoforhild's hair devour my body and mind. When I wake up maybe I'll be blessed enough to be just another pile of ash. Wind take me now.

* * *

~Guinevere~

"Gods be, Guin, are you trying to kill me?"

"Don't pout. It disfigures you."

Druisten's scowl deepens as I continue to clean his wound. My mind wanders elsewhere and he's forced to suffer the consequences of my inattentiveness. Bishop Germanius claims the knights are nearby. He has sent out an envoy to escort them the remaining leg of their journey. I longed to go with them, but my request was flat out refused. Arthur left me here to keep a close eye on things, but he misjudged my power. In this fort I am no better than the common tavern whore, perhaps even worse. I am a heathen. Even the Britons are disconcerted by my presence and the Romans know no bounds. I have been spit upon, cursed, and shunned. But Arthur is coming.

It will be a relief to discard these worries clouding my mind day and night. Normally I would have confided in Druisten, but he has drifted in and out of feverish slumber for the past two days. Today he is bright eyed and smiling again. His wound is healing nicely. There will be a scar, but of course there always is. Sunshine streams in from the infirmary window in a beacon of hope. My heart throbs with desire and impatience. If luck is on my side, our bed will no longer be cold tonight. Arthur will know what to do about Bishop Germanius and his sly deals with the Saxons. His firm presence will drive away my fickle unease.

Then there is the girl; Seraphina. Often I've found myself wondering about her. She is a mystery to me. I have not decided whether or not to tell Arthur about my meeting with Merlin. He is my lover, but I have secrets and so does he. I'm fairly sure he'll disagree with my decision to deliver the girl to my father and the Woads. It won't be an immediate transaction after all. Merlin will ask for her when he feels the time is right. Now that he knows she is in no foreseeable danger, he is content to give her time to rest. From what information I have managed to glean from Druisten in his weakened state, it is clear they have traveled through the very pits of purgatory. Oh dear, Arthur's religious references have begun to rub off on me.

"What do you know of her mother? Eirene, isn't it?" Druisten rolls his eyes. I must have asked him this question a thousand times and his answer is always the same. Perhaps I hope that if I repeat my query enough he'll suddenly remember something, anything.

"Absolutely nothing that you haven't already heard," Druisten states, squashing my hope effectively. "She's a Woad turned Roman."

"I wonder why she left."

"Well, I wonder what she saw in these haughty shit heads. No offense, Guin." He adds the last bit hastily, but I brush away his comment. I've grown used to such things. No one, not even my closest companion, understands my decision to stay with Arthur. Love does not come often to my people, unless it is the love of blood. Druisten tries to be sympathetic, but I can see the disappointment in his eyes clear as day. I cannot blame them for their contentious attitudes, for I have yet to discover myself what it is exactly that ties me here. There are days when I would plunge headfirst into the forest once more and leave this fort, and Arthur, behind without a second glance. And then I hear the rumors of his imminent return and I know that I will be standing right at the gate when he comes charging through.

"Why do you think Merlin wants her anyways?" Druisten asks, pulling me from my thoughts. I've finished tending to his wounds. His shoulder is wrapped in fresh linens and I help him settle into the pillows before speaking.

"I learned long ago not to waste my energy trying to decipher why my father does what he does."

"You're not in the least bit curious?" Druisten prods. I focus on folding the extra bandages into neat piles on my lap, creasing the edges to perfection.

"Oh, of course I'm curious," I admit reluctantly. "But it is hardly any of my concern what he plans on doing with the child."

"Aye, I always forget you're the good wife now, keeping the home intact while your man does all of the fighting for you. It must be nice." I look up sharply, irked by the bitter edge in his tone. Druisten meets my glare unflinchingly. If he weren't in his sick bed, I'd cut him with my dagger here and now.

"I am hardly his wife." It is the only argument I can scrape up and I realize sadly how weak it is. Druisten snorts harshly. His boyish face is hardened with a disdain I am unfamiliar with.

"Of course, you're his heathen pet, put on display for the Romans enjoyment."

"Druisten!" I leap to my feet angrily. The linens I had so meticulously folded unravel to the stone floor. "How dare you say such things?"

"I am simply trying to open your eyes, Guinevere. You have become a caged animal in this place."

"Yet even caged beasts retain their claws," I murmur dangerously. Druisten's insults thrum through my blood darkly. My face is flaming with indignation.

"Perhaps, but you have forgotten how to use them." Before I lose all control, I storm out of the infirmary in a billowing wind of fluttering skirts. The door slams behind me so hard that the frame shakes and a few splinters rain down. I am too proud to kill an injured man, but Druisten pushed the line. We have always been honest with one another. Never has the truth stung so potently.

I retract my claws for Arthur's sake. They may abuse me with their prejudice words until the world freezes over, but I will not let them have the satisfaction of sinking to their level. Of course Druisten cannot comprehend why I submit to the taunts or why I stay in this place. It is all for Arthur. Love. They never describe the mud and grit of it in pretty poems. It is not fighting for those you love that is difficult. It is not fighting.

Vanora catches my eye as I enter the tavern. It is not a place I tend to frequent; too many people and too many suspicious stares. However today, I am in strong need of some liquid comfort. Vanora plops a tankard of ale on the scarred table in front of me. For a moment we assess one another. The fiery woman towers over me with her hands placed on her hips and on intimidating scowl. We haven't spoken often. As much as I secretly admire the woman, it's obvious she still distrusts me.

Our common struggle finally chips away a bit of the stone barricade she's built between us. Her expression softens slightly and she points to the untouched tankard, full to overflowing.

"Drink, gods knows we need it." I nod a silent thanks before gulping down a large swallow that settles warmly in my belly and burns my throat until tears begin to well. A minute later, Vanora refills my cup.

"One tells me you visited the Bishop two nights past, claiming to be on some mission of Arthur's." It takes me a moment to comprehend what she's talking about. Then I vaguely remember Arthur informing me that none of Bors' children have been named. One must be their eldest daughter, the girl who works in the Bishop's kitchen, against her father's wishes of course. Stubborn, the lot of them. Vanora is waiting for my excuse, tapping her toes against the sticky floor impatiently. I decide to be partly honest. Us women left behind must stick together or else perish alone.

"Arthur requested I keep watch over the Bishop in his absence."

"Aye, figured he would." Vanora wants more. I'm not sure whether to confide in her of the happenings of that night. It isn't that I don't have faith in her loyalty. I simply do not wish to stir up trouble if it turns out to be nothing more than a heap of slippery words.

"It all turned out to be a misunderstanding on my part. I apologize if I caused your daughter any undue stress." Vanora knows I'm lying. She purses her lips, but does not press the matter. I'm surprised when she lays a comforting hand on my shoulder. Her motherly touch makes me feel like a child again.

"They do not know what it is like for us," she says mournfully.

"But what other choice do we have?" I ask, keeping my eyes downcast into the amber of my ale as it swirls temptingly. Vanora sighs heavily, finally lifting her hand away. There are other patrons demanding her attention from across the tavern and I hear one of her babies wailing from somewhere or other.

"We could leave, Lady Guinevere."

"Would you?" I meet her sweet eyes and it's clear why Bors fell for her. She's a strong woman. In this life, we must be.

"Of course not." I watch, stunned by her devotion. It is as though she has no doubts at all. This is her life. I only wish I could be so content with mine. Only a few steps away, she turns to look at me over her shoulder with a lyrical smile lighting her tired face.

"Anyways, it's almost over for my Bors. No point in giving up now."

Jealousy creeps up on me unrepentantly. Her love will be given his freedom when he returns. And Arthur? Arthur is tied to Rome by birth and not chains. Our battle has only just begun while Vanora's is coming to a closure. I try to drown my sorrows in the ale only to remain painfully sober. Arthur would laugh at me. I never drink. Oh, my Arthur.

I am on my feet in an instant, hand hovering precautiously over the dagger at my waist, as the door to the tavern swings open. A soldier blocks the fading sunlight from outside, his shadow falls across the floor. He is fully armored and blood stained. My gut clenches as I recognize him as one of the men who were sent out to escort Arthur and his knight's home. My legs begin to tremble. I barely hear his barked commands directed to the other soldiers lingering in the tavern. But a few words sink into my mind; rogue Saxons, Arthur's men attacked, two men wounded, one knight on the brink of death. One knight? But which one he does not bother to disclose. The tavern becomes a bubbling cauldron of activity as the Roman soldiers scurry to their unsteady feet.

I grab one of them near by, a young lad barely old enough to be called a man. He flinches at my touch and his eyes are wary.

"What is happening?" I ask sharply, managing to keep my voice under control.

"A rogue band of Saxons split from the main army. They ambushed Artorius. We're to hunt down the ones that escaped, Lady." he replies grudgingly.

"And Artorius? Is he alive?" It is the only thing that matters, the only question I can recall ever having asked in my life.

"How am I to know?" the young soldier bites. My eyes narrow threateningly and he quickly changes his tone to one of respect. "But I'm sure we would have been told if he were dead." The words are not as reassuring as I would like them to be. Vanora and I lock eyes from across the room. Her face is deathly pals as she clings a babe to her breast and supports herself against another of her older rascals. _One knight on the brink of death. _

There is no doubt in my mind as I follow the soldiers out into the courtyard. I grab the reigns of one of the men's horses and swing into the saddle, ignoring his protests. I soar through the open gates ahead of the others, rushing forward on a wind of cold fear. I am through with waiting. If Arthur is safe I will follow him anywhere. I will never leave his side again for as long as we both shall live. If he goes to Rome, then so shall I. If Arthur decides to soar straight into the bright blue sky, touch the sun itself, then I will be with him. If only, if only, if only…he is still mine to follow.

* * *

~Arthur~

_God, grant me strength._

At first I thought she was Lancelot. She struck in the same swoop as he would have. Her slight feet moved in the pattern I watched him develop on the training field as a boy. She even wielded his sword. Lady Seraphina an angel of death.

They are gone, Lancelot and his pupil. Of course I know! The realization struck with cold clarity in that single moment when she parted the pandemonium and stood over me, flaming and determined. Through the inane clumsiness, I saw Lancelot. Every move mimicked his. It is common knowledge that novices are replicates of their masters. Years of practice molds a style of ones own, but Seraphina has only had a handful of days to learn everything he could teach her.

How could I have been so blind? I was preoccupied by the spontaneity of the Saxon retreat, picking my mind apart for explanations, while my most trusted friend betrayed me. For what reason? To give her a chance at revenge? To give her false courage so that in moments such as these she could believe in her minimal ability enough to risk everything I have strived to protect? Instead of feeling grateful of the life I am blessed to keep for another day, only pain fills my soul. He was supposed to keep her safe. He knew what she meant to me, the debt I owed to her father. Yet, Lancelot disregarded it all. He placed a sword in her hand, prodded the fires of her vengeance, and now she is lost. Once you begin fighting, you can never stop.

And they are still gone. I stand in the center of the universe as Roman soldiers swarm around us. My men pass by from the corners of my eyes. Gawain, Galahad, Bors, Tristan. But no Lancelot. And no Dagonet. I know that I should search for my missing contingents. Still I stay, lost and helpless in a way that I have never been before. Lancelot and I fought side by side. I thought it would always be that way. Perhaps they are right when they call me naïve. I gave him my trust time and time again. Now I must suffer the repercussions of treachery.

"Arthur!" Gawain's shout drags me unwillingly into the light. It is the panic underlying his words that forces me to surface and clear my head. The world does not stop moving just because I do. Keep walking, Konstantinos said. It is the same everyday. I follow the voice of my men to the place where they have all gathered.

Bors is kneeling in the waste of black mud and blood. He lifts his head to the sky and a broken clash of thunder expels from deep inside his chest. I see the rest of them before the body. Galahad steadies himself upon Gawain, both of them pale and listless. Tristan has collapsed nearby, clutching his wounded side and grasping at each shallow breath. He needs to be cared for quickly. Then there is Dagonet, the body. Our healer now drowning in Bors' desolate cry.

At first I believe him to be dead. Then his chest rises, barely enough to notice, a single flutter of life. ALIVE. The truth of it knocks me off of my feet. I am beside Bors in an instant, cupping Dagonet's sallow face in my hands. If he hadn't been our brother for fifteen years, we never would have recognized him covered in filth.

"You will stay with us," I bark, suffocating on the command. Dagonet is beyond hearing. His pulse is a trickling stream of water over the rocks of fading existence. "You will live and you will be free."

I do not know if my words are for Dagonet or for all of them. They watch me, waiting for direction, and I am reminded of the Saxon child. She is no where to be seen as well. I do not know what to tell them. Men, on the day you were to become free I have led you to yet another blood bath. I have let another of you fall. I hate the way they are looking at me, as though I am someone to believe in! The great Artorius Castus who leads his men on a wild quest, leaves them in the mud, and can't even see when he's being stabbed in the back.

"Stay with him," I say at last, gesturing to Bors. The large knight nods solemnly. So much pain and fear in their eyes. I am not your father! I am not your Savior. Do not look at me as though I can change things.

"Lancelot," Galahad whispers. His eyes trace a line directly behind me. Again I lose the will to move as Lancelot appears with the setting sun chasing him. Seraphina is limp in his arms. Her wails penetrate the air. They shake the very earth with their devastation. Lancelot does not look at me, even when we are mere feet apart. Galahad steps forward, arms outstretched, before falling back once more. He averts his eyes from the broken woman cradled to Lancelot's chest.

"Give her here," Gawain huffs. He comes between Lancelot and me briefly, reaching for Seraphina. Reluctantly, Lancelot gives her away. She is oblivious to the transaction.

"Hush now, girl. Hush," Gawain murmurs dimly. His comforting words are uninspiring and ignored. Seraphina continues to lament. I have failed her. I have failed all of them. Lancelot shifts uncomfortably. His hands hover over the empty space where he once held Seraphina.

"Eoforhild is gone. The Saxons took her," Lancelot states tonelessly. "The Princessa chased after them, but…" He falters into a brooding silence.

"No doubt she intended to kill them herself." I fill the silence, my words pregnant with meaning. "After all, she has been trained by the best." Lancelot's eyes snap to mine, reflecting terror, shame, and guilt. I need no more proof.

"Arthur, I-"

"Why?" My voice is dull. Lancelot casts his eyes to the ground once more.

"She asked me to," he whispers.

"BUT I ASKED YOU TO PROTECT HER!" I roar. Galahad flinches, but Lancelot remains motionless. He breathes in deeply, searching hopelessly for something to hold on to. Seraphina cries louder.

"He did." Tristan's calm voice fissures in my ears. I round on the scout, standing shakily and pale. His amber gaze is frozen and far away, but his words are too near. "He taught her to defend herself."

"He taught her to be reckless," I argue. "She is a child, not a warrior."

"You may not wish this life for her, Artorius, but it is not something you can shield her from. We have given her a chance to survive."

"We?" I did not think my pain could grow any larger, but it consumes me wholly now.

"Aye," Tristan answers without remorse. So I have been stabbed twice. Galahad swivels his eyes from the both of them, openly flabbergasted.

"I thought…Lancelot, I did not…" he stammers.

"It matters not, Galahad." He pushes away the young knight's flustered apology. Everything is vibrantly clear. We have all been strung along on false pretenses; Galahad under the impression Lancelot stole Seraphina's virtue and then there is me, foolishly thinking that I could trust my men. I focus on Lancelot, my friend.

"How could you do this?" I cry, despising myself for the torment that is so easy to hear in my voice.

"I am sorry." Lancelot is swimming in a pain of his own. I'd like to say it means nothing to me now. I'd like to say I care nothing for this man who has trampled upon my affection. But falsehoods are a sin. More than anything, I would like to forgive him here and now so that this could dissolve in the wake of destruction we leave behind us everywhere we go. Certainly I have failed my men, but they have done much the same.

"It is not enough." The rejection stings. Lancelot crumples before me, broken and humbled. I have never wanted to see him this way, not my proud brother.

"Arthur, please," he chokes, lifting his hand to me. I pull away. For the first time, I turn my back on Lancelot. I turn away from all of them, ashamed of the ending I have led them to. Dagonet remains on the balance of life and death. Bors cries without shame at the probable grave of his friend. Galahad watches me leave like the lost boy he's always been. Gawain struggles to comfort the girl he's so despised these long months, because sorrow is blind to past grudges. Tristan continues to bleed as his hawk cries overhead. Seraphina howls until it is all we can hear, mourning a lost child.

Lancelot. He hides his face behind his hands, slumped in defeat, and unwilling to be seen ever again. I loved him in the way only men in arms can love one another; an emotion that runs deeper than any other. Fighting side by side until the end of our days or the end of his prison sentence. They will all be free soon; free of this land, of Rome, and of me. The fool commander who could not lead them safely home.

_God, grant me forgiveness._

_

* * *

_

**rebeccaS: **Glad you're back! haha. To answer your question, Galahad DOES love Sera, but he is not IN LOVE with her. He feels responsible for her, because as the youngest of the knights, he remembers better than the others what it was like to be taken from everything you knew. Sorry if I haven't made their relationship clear enough. It's a bit difficult to balance the line between friendship and budding romance. But as I have promised before, no love triangle. Oh yeah, and the moment should without a doubt be in the next chapter! :D

**devilpup12: **I'm glad you liked the last chapter. I quite like you and your review :D

**A/N: **Oh, this chapter was hard to write. I hope it's worth the emotional strain. Read, review, and enjoy :D


	16. Chapter 16

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing that you recognize...and everything that you do not.

* * *

"_Where there is hatred, let me sow love. _

_Where there is injury, pardon. _

_Where there is doubt, faith."_

_-Saint Francis of Assisi_

**SIXTEEN**

~Seraphina~

Shadows frolic on the insides of my eyes. Tick Tick. They dance like lost time. More often than not I don't know where I am. Somewhere in limbo, spiraling between forward and no more. Only when I'm lucid does it hurt. Oh and it does hurt. I list every possible torture; spikes and spears, quartering, disembowelment, lashings. None of them compare to this. The things I tried to push aside rebel, screaming to be brought to life. Family, a home, a little red-headed girl who ate the world with her eyes.

In these moments of reality, mingled within the insanity, I always find Galahad. The bed is too soft. I miss the ground. And the blankets are warm, but I'm so cold. He holds a damp towel to my burning brow and whispers words. I hear him calling out to me.

"Come home, Sera." Home? I don't know how to find it. "Come back, little one." He won't let me leave. Those entreaties chain me to this aching body and soul. I lash out at him with tongue and hand. He lets me. Hit after hit and Galahad waits until I slip away once more. Then he continues to coo.

"Kill me," I moan, kneeling on the ground with my fingers tangled in his coarse tunic. Sometimes they must hold me down. I feel Gawain pressing against me, my wrists pinned over my head so that I am upside down and inside out. Galahad yells at him. It causes my head to throb. Then Gawain is gone. My young knight never strays. But he can't follow me down to the center of the earth where I hide from them all.

It is safe here, in my hovel. I wallow silently in this place. There is no need for words. I stare at a blank wall. Everything is colorless and I marvel that it's even possible. There is not even white. I like it here. Galahad's voice is a dim enticement. I can resist life! It certainly has done nothing to make me faithful. I don't ponder peace and death and love and loss. I simply watch nothing for hours on end. It's end. The end. Farewell.

"Come home, little one." Fly home. I slam the nothing-windows in the nothing-wall of nothing-color to keep out his something-voice. Kill me, kill me.

Then there is Lancelot. I assume it's night, for everything is dark, but then again it always is. Galahad is somewhere. I can sense him, but he is sleeping on the floor unaware. Lancelot. I touch his sad face and bring it with me to my hiding place. He knows it hurts. I pull him into me, but there's only room for one of us in the colorless room, and he tells me to stay there. That night, maybe day, he wraps his angry hands around my neck and shakes me hard until I hear my brain rattle like a drum. Saxon drum. Boom. Boom. Stolen. Stolen. His tears hit my hot cheeks. They roll down my neck, between my breasts, across my heart. It hurts. Is he really crying? Or am I?

His hands slip from around my throat to stroke my hair. He climbs in beside me on the too soft bed and we curl into a tight knit sphere of nothing.

"Why?" I whisper over and over again.

"Sera, Sera," he murmurs. Then he's gone and I am still here. Dizzy and delusional. Galahad always calling me home. I am here. Cold and alone.

Bit by bit, no matter how hard I fight, the colors stream in. First red, always red. Then black, white, yellow, green. So many of them. Next come words. First hello, always hello. Then ocean, sometimes, rus, and hush. I learn the name of my hidden place, the center of the earth. It is the womb. Galahad is a midwife. How strange! And I am the itty bitty baby spun the wrong way and coming out feet first through a canal of colors and words. I want to stay in the chasm of non-existence. The midwife is tugging and turning.

At last, I slide into the world in a flood of mucus. There never was an umbilical cord. I floated freely. Galahad wraps me in the swaddling cloth of his arms. Last to return are names. First Helena, always Helena. Then Alex, Mama, Papa, Theo, little men and women I do not know. I fill my infant lungs with the first breath of new life and expel it quickly around a single name.

Eoforhild. Eating me with her eyes. I suck the teat of remembered sorrow. And it hurts. Always has and always will. Fly home. Sera, Sera. Why? I am reborn.

* * *

~Galahad~

I have three things of which to be grateful for. Guinevere arrived just in time to stop Arthur from slitting his own throat, Dagonet is not dead, and Sera's fever finally broke this morning after three endless days.

We are in the same place were everything fell to pieces. No one wished to move Dagonet, Tristan, or Sera. It was too much of a risk. The Roman soldiers from the wall brought luxuries my sore eyes drank in suspiciously. I touched the clean clothes left at the foot of my cot, the one I have not used, as though the threads would disintegrate beneath my fingertips. I have slept on the floor of Sera's tent, and only when my eyes grew too heavy to hold open. My throat is parched from so many hours of calling her name. I can't describe those days. They are a blur of desperation and a single goal to keep her from extinguishing like a candle flame hardly lit.

Gawain kept us company at times. He informed me of the two other things of which I am grateful for. According to him, Guinevere flew into camp like a demon of flesh and blood. She took one look at Arthur and slapped him solidly across the face before throwing her arms around our sleep-walking commander. She's some kind of a woman. If anyone can pull Arthur back, it is her. Then there is Dagonet.

Writhing in pain, still unconscious, but his pulse grows stronger with every day. I am on my way to visit him now, having left Sera for the first time since this all began. I nearly thought she didn't recognize me when her thin eyelids fluttered open. She frowned, opened her mouth, and screamed the Saxon child's name so loudly they probably could hear her all the way at the fort. However, she did not claw at me like a wild beast. I have scratches across my face and arms from where Sera has attacked in her delirium.

She cried the name only once before her tormented expression was wiped into a blank slate. She sat up on her lumpy mat and pushed away the multitude of blankets I'd tucked around her. Sera looked me straight in the eyes without a trace of emotion.

"I am here," she declared. Then she promptly fell back down and drifted into the first, real slumber she's had in days. Her chest rose and fell evenly. No more gasping sobs or, even worse, the moments when she ceased to take in air altogether. It was then that I realized I hadn't been breathing much myself. The tent was stuffy with sickness. Gawain took up my post and directed me in the direction of the makeshift infirmary; a red canvas tent larger than the rest. Why are the Romans so fond of red? It's such an ugly shade.

As I stride through our camp, I'm amazed at how many people are here. Soldiers crawl around with their swords draped lazily. They were sent by Bishop Germanius to escort us _safely_ to Hadrians Wall. A shame they were ten minutes too late for any of that.

Tristan is sitting outside of the infirmary, a little to the left of the entrance flap tied back to let in a frozen breeze. He's whittling silently at a wily block of half rotted wood. He doesn't seem to care that the wood crumbles under his knife rather than actually shifting into something recognizable.

"The girl?" Tristan questions apathetically, without bothering to glance up.

"Alive."

"Too bad. Dag's awake." I nod as I pass him. There's no need to ask what he meant by 'too bad'. Living doesn't seem like the top rate option nowadays. It's my fault she's been cursed with life, I guess, but I wasn't about to let her go now.

Dagonet certainly is awake. He opens his eyes at the faint whisper of disturbed fabric as I slip into the dark tent. Instantly, I wish to flee back into the sunlight. I have had enough of sickness and sorrow to last me a lifetime, but he is my brother. So I stay.

Dagonet, our gentle giant, is shrunken to the size of a baby's fist. He tries to smile as I sit beside him, but it fades to a grimace. If I just focus on the top half of him, he could be the same man I've always known. Yet my eyes wander to the twisted excuse for a left leg, bent into a crooked arch and wrapped in blood soaked bandages. The wound continues to bleed. Probably infected. They sliced him from ankle to groin and now all that is left is poorly bandaged bone and a distorted angle.

"How are you faring?" It's the most ridiculous question I could have asked, and the only one that came to mind. Dagonet shrugs his broad shoulders.

"Could be worse." Could be dead. Is it really worse?

"What does the healer say?"

"I'm lucky and I'll probably never walk again." He says it as though it's nothing. Oh, the weather's rainy as usual, and by the way, I'm crippled. It's nice to know some things never change, like Dagonet's passive acceptance. This is one more trial to brave. Perhaps Dagonet is the most courageous of us all.

"How did it happen?" I ask carefully. Really I'm asking how could you let this happen to yourself? Dagonet closes his eyes briefly. He must be tired. I've heard mortal wounds do that to a person.

"Eoforhild," he sighs. I hear the first chord of regret. "Bors tells me she is gone."

"You did your best," I say in a weak attempt at consolation. Dagonet's hand twitches imperceptibly.

"She was a child."

"We do not always win." An echo of Sera's first word upon reawakening bounces around in my head. Eoforhild. I wasn't close to her. She was a Saxon and no real loss to me. But she meant something to Sera. I cannot fathom what. I rub the heel of my palm against my forehead. The aching pulsation in my skull is becoming harder to ignore. I need sleep.

"Has Lancelot been to see you?" I speak to keep from going insane like the rest of them. Lancelot was not the subject I truly cared to broach.

"Not since I have regained consciousness." And probably not while he was lost in a coma either. Lancelot's curled into himself. He hasn't so much as grunted at any of us. Lancelot cowers in his tent while Arthur marches on like a ghost of my commander. They're never in the same place. I'm not sure what to say to either of them. Hey you stubborn fools, kiss and make up already! or Go ahead and work this out in a duel so that the rest of us can go on with our lives. May the better man win! I don't know who I'm cheering for.

I've berated myself a million times over for lashing out at Lancelot. How much of an idiot can I possibly be, to think he'd snatch away Sera's innocence callously, like a villain in some distorted epic? Then again he may as well have taken her innocence by placing a sword in her hand. He and Tristan both, but of course the scout is of little consequence. Arthur could have expected something like this from him. Tristan didn't make on oath to protect Sera either. So he isn't blameless, but he isn't a traitor. Oh, perhaps treachery is a bit harsh. Lancelot would never have set out to hurt Arthur purposefully. He worships the man. We all do in some way or another. The world is not right with the two of them standing on opposite sides of the hemisphere.

"Bloody Hell Tristan, are you trying to carve something or flood us with rotted shavings!" Bors bellows. He's always so loud you can hear him from miles away. I can picture Tristan giving his characteristic shrug of nonchalance. He definitely doesn't answer through speech.

The tent shrinks when Bors steps inside. His considerable bulk consumes much of our space. His squinty eyes find Dagonet swiftly as he takes in our comrade with careful scrutiny, as though discerning whether or not he's really still here. After reassuring himself that Dag, is in fact, not a figment of his imagination, Bors turns to me.

"Arthur's 'bout to interrogate one of the prisoners. I thought you might like to be there," he grunts.

"He hasn't questioned them already!" I cry in alarm. It's been three days. Arthur is never slack, regardless his personal dilemma's. Bors grins halfheartedly. His wide face stretches.

"Where've you been, boy? Passed out like the rest of them? O' course Arthur's questioned them. Those bastard's just don't crack, but I've got a feeling today is the day." I wince at his honesty. I have been cocooned in Sera's little world for so long I'd nearly forgotten about everything else. Now I'm itching to stretch my legs and taste the familiar flavor of war again. At least it's something I know.

"Are you coming?" I ask, directing my question to Bors as I stand.

"I've seen enough of it." He takes my vacant place beside Dagonet. For a moment I wonder if this is how it will be from now on, Bors keeping our bedridden companion company for the rest of his days. That is devotion. Sad devotion. I wave a silly farewell to the both of them, flapping my hand like a little girl.

Tristan is still whittling. His knife pauses when two Roman soldiers drag a bent over, little man into the open space between all of our tents. He hardly looks like a Saxon warrior with his darting eyes and hunched figure. His skin hangs from his bones. The soldiers dump him carelessly at Arthur's feet. Our commander's newly polished armor glints in the sunlight. He peers down at the pitiful creature disdainfully. I cross my arms over my chest and wait for it to begin. Tristan begins to twirl his knife, his sharp eyes casting a shadow over the scene before us. A crowd has gathered. This must be quite the spectacle.

"Cynefrid." Arthur tastes the foreign name disinterestedly. He crouches before the man, Cynefrid, and places the tip of Excalibur against his chest.

"Who sent you?" The tone of his voice, bored, suggests he has followed this same pattern for days. Cynefrid spits savagely. Arthur wipes the spittle from his cheek with the back of his hand, perfectly composed. It is disconcerting to see him this way, cold and cruel. He has always been a man of passion, whether it be anger or kindness. Now he is bland like unsalted meat. In the background of a cluster of rigid soldiers, Guinevere stands out even though she tries to blend. She frowns as her eyes follow Arthur's every movement. I am not the only one disturbed.

"Who sent you?" Arthur repeats. This time, however, he brings the hilt of Excalibur across the man's jaw. I hear the snap of cracking bone. Cynefrid crumbles to the dust and Arthur kicks him in the gut with his heavy boot. Blood splatters from the broken man's mouth along with a stream of venomous, foreign words.

"No one!" he hisses in fumbled English. The man glares at Arthur with so much ferocity I find myself moving automatically to defend him until Tristan wraps his hand around my ankle, never once glancing away from the unfolding scene.

"Someone must have," Arthur presses ruthlessly. He draws his foot back once more, but the man holds his trembling hands up.

"No, no!" Cynefrid cries. "We were not sent." Arthur scowls, but does not strike again.

"Why did you break from the main battalion?"

"We no longer follow Cerdic." I recognize the name of the Saxon chief. It boils my blood. "He is not worthy of our allegiance."

"Deserter's," Arthur declares. "For what reason?"

"Any man who makes deals with Roman filth is no leader of mine!" Cynefrid pulls himself up, clutching Arthur by the wrists. I shake off Tristan and begin to move forward once more, at the same moment as Guinevere. Arthur halts us both with a single glance.

"What deal?" Cynefrid tosses his head back and laughs. It chills my bones. He is deranged.

"Ask your Bishop, Lord Artorius." With those taunting words bogging us all, Cynefrid leaps to his feet and begins to run. There is no escape and he does not waste his short freedom on making an attempt. Instead, the Saxon rips a sword from a nearby soldier's hands and plunges it deep within his own stomach. Tristan curses under his breath. I am too stunned to react. After bending down to check for a pulse, Arthur departs the silent crowd. Guinevere's skirts flutter as she follows him. I don't even dare.

"What did he mean by that?" I ask, peering down at Tristan. The scout shrugs, of course, and gazes into the distance. He returns to his mindless whittling. I roll my eyes in exasperation and begin to walk. I'm not sure where I intend to go. Sera may need me, but I'm not ready to lock myself in a sick house again. I step around the dead Saxon where he will probably be left to decay. Already the others are moving around him as well. He isn't worth burying.

Then again, who really is?

* * *

~Guinevere~

He's polishing Excalibur yet again. Arthur doesn't acknowledge my presence as I kneel behind him, resting my hands across his rigid shoulders and burying my face into the back of his neck. His dark hair tickles my forehead. To have him in my arms again is not what I dreamt of this long month of separation. He left my lover and I have found him a stranger.

"Arthur," I whisper. As though I could remind him of himself. His hands never falter as they slide down the blade of his father's sword. I can see the both of us reflected in the bright metal. I slip my hands down his arms, remembering each indention from the bend in his elbow to his knotted wrists. Still, he does not notice or care. I set my lips to his cheek. Wordlessly, Arthur pushes me away, not harshly, but with all to clear of a meaning.

He stands and begins to pace from one side of our tent to the other. I twist my hands in my lap and watch his progress. There isn't very much room to travel in our confined quarters. Shadows of passing men flicker across the fabric walls of the tent, but we're worlds away from them in our tiny sanctuary. Perhaps sanctuary is the wrong word, for we are not any safer here than out there.

"I was too slow." Arthur pauses in his manic march. I do not need to ask what he's talking about. The interrogation scene from earlier today is fresh in my mind: Arthur's statuesque face carved from apathy, the Saxons honorable suicide, and his blood shining in the sun as it quenched the ground's thirst.

"You could not have anticipated his actions. None of us did."

"IT IS MY JOB TO ANTICIPATE!" He's never yelled at me before. I'm torn between the urge to slap him and love him. I know his anger is not meant for me, but I am the only one who dares approach him so it tends to make me a vessel for his frustration. I sigh and bite back the indignation struggling to be voiced. Patience is what he needs. Nothing I have to say will heal his pain. Only Lancelot can do that. Oh, Arthur didn't tell me of their rift, but Bors was more than willing to share after a bit of prodding. I'd like to sit both men down and make them see eye to eye, but I am no negotiator of peace. Besides, Lancelot refuses to leave his tent and I wouldn't dare upset Arthur more by going to the man he feels has betrayed him.

"Bishop Germanius," I begin hesitantly once Arthur resumes his steps. As soon as the name drops from my tongue, Arthur rounds on me, sparks flying from his verdant eyes. For the first time since I arrived in this haunted camp, I am frightened.

"Well?" Arthur snaps brusquely.

"He's up to something. I do not know what, but today's events only confirm that."

"Don't deem to tell me what I have already deciphered, Lady Guinevere. What sort of naïve fool do you take me for?"

"I have not called you any such thing," I hiss, losing my resolve to remain calm. I rise quickly, brush the dirt from my skirts, and meet his fiery glare with one of my own. "Artorius Castus, just because one man makes a mistake, it gives you no right to spite us all."

"A mistake?" he scoffs, hands clenching into tight knit fists. "He was my second in command! If I cannot trust him, then who can I?" His unintended insult slices me from toe to scalp. After all we have survived he has the gumption to doubt my loyalty. Or worse, he is so blinded he is unable to see it at all. I close the distance between us and clasp his face between my palms.

"You can trust me Arthur, and your men. Do not forget that."

"I believed in him." My lover sighs in resignation. All patience is gone now. I have never known Arthur to behave like a child.

"Lancelot loves you as though you were his very own father. They all do." I let my arms fall to my sides, releasing him from my touch, but not my gaze. "They are only human, as are you. Gods know why Lancelot decided to give that child a sword, but do not be an idiot in thinking he did it with any intention to hurt you." Swiftly, I kiss the back of his hand before leaving him to brood.

I rub my eyes, trying to shake lose the darkness, and peer up into the setting sun. Tristan is still sitting outside the infirmary. Having chopped his slab of blackened wood into a pile of useless soot, he has contented himself to digging little holes in the frozen earth with the tip of his dagger. He watches me approach silently.

"Why?" I ask bluntly. Tristan continues to dig without replying until I kick the dagger free from his grip and place my foot over the weapon solidly.

"Why did I teach her or why did Lancelot?" His voice is dry and emotionless. Secretly, I'm pleased he seems unaffected by this. I take it in good faith that if Tristan can continue on, then maybe the others, namely Arthur, can as well.

"Both." Another pregnant pause.

"It's simple for me. She needed to learn."

"Arthur does not seem to agree," I retort. I defend him even though I am furious with him. Love makes no sense.

"Arthur is an honorable man, but honorable men rarely see what they don't wish to."

"Are you claiming that he is ignorant?"

"Hopeful." I cannot argue. I have always been drawn to Tristan. He reminds me of my own people at times. No mingled words, just bold truth.

"And what of Lancelot?" I ask the question that has been weighing on my mind like a persistent dog begging to be fed. Tristan shrugs.

"I can only guess." I wave a hand for him to continue. "Regardless his cynical disregard to our imprisonment to Rome, Lancelot carries a constant grudge. It is my belief that he wished to give the girl the chance at revenge he never could accomplish."

"He meant to live through her?" I speak slowly, not fully understanding Tristan's explanation.

"He meant to free her."

"A noble quest," I snort, partly sarcastic and partly in awe. If only Arthur could see it in the same way Tristan does, perhaps he could forgive Lancelot. When push comes to shove, they both intended to rescue the girl. In their very different ways. We're all fighting the same war. Why can't anyone see that we're allies and not enemies?

"Where is this troublesome little thing? I'd like to see her." Tristan points idly to a tent, smaller than ours and larger than the soldiers, just a few yards away. I nod my gratitude and lift my foot from Tristan's dagger, kicking it to him in a cloud of dust.

"Oh, and what of Dagonet?" I call over my shoulder, half way down the row of tents. Tristan flashes his amber eyes into the recesses of the canvas infirmary and shakes his head in an unreadable gesture. Of course he wouldn't raise his voice loud enough for me to hear. Arthur's lovely scout, a man of muffled grunts and mute sentences. I make a note to visit Dagonet later and continue on to meet the heart of all this chaos. It's unfair to judge her in such a way. I doubt she intended for any of this to occur.

Bors has given me a complete description of their journey. I know of her deceased family, the Saxons attempt to kidnap her, the discovery of a little bastard named Eoforhild, and ultimately the loss of that same child. The largest shock of all was learning that Seraphina, my sister in Woad blood, is a Roman Princessa. Merlin did not inform me of that vital morsel of information. It makes my position a bit more difficult. Bors tells me her family was exiled, but will that matter to the Romans now? It may be quite the trial to bring her to Merlin. Not to mention Arthur! Lancelot merely taught her how to wield a sword. What will my lover do when I steal her away altogether?

I push these thoughts away. Merlin and I will have a nice chat when I return, but for now I will asses this hell raiser for myself. Gawain is keeping guard outside of the tent. He looks as though he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Lady Guinevere!" he hails. "Come to see our prized spectacle?" I can't help but grin at his bitter humor.

"I'd like to speak with her, yes."

"Not sure if she'll say much, a bit comatose at the moment, but you're more than welcome to give it a go." Gawain pulls back the tent flap and gestures to the dark depths lavishly. "Be careful, my lady, she's a right little devil prone to biting."

"I think I can defend myself, thank-you Sir Gawain." With a curt grin, I slip past him. It is a while before my eyes adjust to the suffocating darkness. The faint outline of a tiny person coiled tensely on a skewed mat begins to solidify. I take her in bit by bit as things become clear. A sorer sight I've never seen.

Ever since Merlin told me of her existence, I've held an image in my head of a young woman mirroring that of others in our clan. Of course I didn't expect her to be blessed with our markings, but neither did I dream of the pitiful creature watching me blankly from the shadows. Merlin said her mother was a powerful woman. Now I have learned that her father was a great man in Rome, closer to their Emperor than any other. You wouldn't think she had parents such as those looking at her now.

Her glassy eyes are red-rimmed in a hollow face framed by damp tangles. Her translucent skin is flushed and glistening with sweat. She sits with her knees pulled to her chest. A thin shift slips from her shoulder and I'm disgusted by the bruises so vibrant and visible on the thin strip of exposed flesh. What must the rest of her look like? Pity wells in my breast. Her little gasps for air are the only sound. She scrunches away from me when I take a few cautious steps forward.

"I will not harm you," I reassure, holding my hands up in a gesture of peace. "My name is Guinevere. I am a friend of Arthur's."

"I know." Her little voice is wispy and weak. "Lancelot, where is he?" _Wallowing in his own self pity_, doesn't seem like the kindest answer. I wonder why she asks of him and search for the meaning in her abysmal eyes. It's like parting smoke to see the face on the opposite side of the fire. I'm choking on the fumes before I reach any kind of conclusion.

"He is safe." My answer does not please her. The corners of her cracked lips turn down in a frown and she turns her gaze past me, as though I am unworthy now that I have nothing to tell her.

"Arthur knows," she sighs. Her tiny hand flutters to her neck and the finger shaped marks that wrap around it. "I must tell him!" The girl climbs to her knees and makes an attempt to lift herself up. With a strangled cry, she falls uselessly on her stomach. Before she can try again, I place a restraining hand on her back.

"You are weak. The fever took much of your strength."

"If I cannot even walk, how will I tell him the truth!" The sudden determination in her voice disorients me. Perhaps she is her parent's daughter after all…

"Give it time," I say gently, guiding her into a more comfortable position. She doesn't fight as I tuck the blankets around her fragile body once more.

"But it's my fault," she mumbles. "I asked him to do it. Lancelot didn't want to teach me, but I wouldn't let it go. I needed to learn. I…oh, Arthur has to know!"

"Hush now, girl," I reprimand softly. I run my fingers through her wild tresses of hair and loosen the tangles. "There will be time for all of that." She peers up at me desperately, begging me to understand her need.

"No more bloodshed," she proclaims. Her words are set in stone. Before I can so much as ponder what she means, Seraphina collapses into my arms. She digs her fingers into the bodice of my dress. Her diminished body is wracked by wretched sobs and I find that the only comfort I have to offer her is an old song my mother once sang to me. The lullaby only encourages her tears.

"Mama, mama!" she cries. "I want to go home." Gawain appears in the doorway, but says nothing. The two of us are helpless, only able to witness her suffer. I find tears of my own blooming. Tears for Arthur, Lancelot, the knights, Vanora, Briton, and myself. We create an ocean of woes that we must cross, sharing one boat and many pains. It would seem we have sprung a leak.

* * *

~Seraphina~

"Oh, go away, would you?" Between the patter of rain and Gawain's aggravated sighs, I'm unable to find any comfort.

"Galahad asked me to stay." He turns away, considering the matter settled. I am anything but! My mind and body have been parted for so long now that I find they hardly recognize one another. While Gawain continues to carefully ignore me, I begin to reacquaint myself with movement. _Curl your toes, rotate your wrist, scratch your arse._ Simple things leave me heaving for breath with a fine sheen of sweat soaking my brow. My joints are stiff. I'm learning everything all over again; roll, crawl, walk. Dagonet can do none of these things.

Not for the first time sense Gawain informed me of his fellow knight's fate, I'm pricked by unreasonable jealousy. They'll expect me to clamber to my feet once more sooner or later. I'll be pushed forward on unsteady legs. Dagonet has been given a boon. He can stay where he is forever, not moving back nor forward. I'm sure no one sees it in that way, and it doesn't completely ease my pain. Dagonet, my ally, and the man who has tended to so many of my wounds with gentle hands. Did he fall when I was saving Arthur or losing Eoforhild?

I've made a tedious point to remember everything in detail, from the death of my family to our last skirmish. Now I have reached the point where I cannot shed one more tear. When a fresh wave of agony arrives, all I'm able to do is curl onto my side and try to hold myself together until it passes. And they always pass, leaving behind side effects, but ebb none the less. There has not been another of these attacks sense Guinevere took her leave just a little after nightfall. I hardly noticed her until she was gone. She sang a song that my mother once hummed. There will be plenty of time for us to become acquainted, I fear.

Whether I like it or not I am alive and healing. Physically, if not on a mental level just yet. Sometimes I still see odd shapes and only when I reach out to touch these shadows do I understand that they're not there. I must appear to be mad. In all honesty, I am torturously sane.

Again I find my hands wrapped around my neck over the tell-tale necklace of bruises that perfectly mimic the shape of Lancelot's fingers. It was one the first things I realized upon coming to. His strange visit was not conjured by my feverish dreams. Lancelot was here. It wasn't difficult to put two and two together; his dark eyes pooling with desolation and the anger in his touch. Arthur has uncovered our secret. I itch to find him, lay everything at his feet, and beg that he forgive Lancelot.

It is my doing! I dragged him into this mess kicking and screaming, knowing full well the trouble it could cause, and it was all for nothing. I have not become a better person for it. Knowing the proper way to carry a sword has not made me a hero. Eoforhild is far away, dead or alive it doesn't make much of a difference. Revenge doesn't matter in the least any more. I do not desire to take another life, for I have done enough. Let every cursed Saxon grow to a ripe old age, it's more of a punishment than anything else I could deliver.

Oh, I've been so ridiculous. I've let anger take the reigns and what is worse, I have let myself belief that somehow I could justify my faults. Every breath between my empty home to this dreary camp mere gallops from Hadrians Wall has been drawn in vain.

_I must avenge my dead kin. I must be a voice for those that have perished unfairly._

It's all been for the dead and it took Eoforhild, a fiery bundle of so much life, to realize my mistake. When they tore her from my arms I understood what it meant to truly lose. Her screams are not faded around the edges like those of Mama's and Theo's. They are gone and there is no hope for them now. But Eoforhild had a chance to survive, to be happy if it is still possible in this world. The dead could care less one way or another what we do in their memory. So if I'm going to be expected to rise and plow ahead, I will do so with not another wasted step in honor of those I cannot help. I will exist and, so help me God, Lancelot and Arthur will as well.

"What did she mean to you?" Gawain's hesitant voice crosses the perilous distance between us. It's hard to make him out in the receding light. I know he looks a mess. All of us do. I've never been fond of Gawain and I'm too tired to start trying now, but there's no denying that my destiny is closely interwoven with all of theirs. Whether by accident or some God's decree, we are all together.

"Eoforhild." Her name sticks to the insides of my cheeks. How many times have I repeated those three syllables like a noose and a plea? "I loved her."

"She was a Saxon," Gawain states, not unkindly. It's a plain fact to him, but not to me.

"Arthur is Roman, yet you would follow him anywhere. We don't have a say in who we love."

"And Lancelot?" Gawain meets my eyes intently. I don't miss the condemnation in his tone and I cannot blame him for it either. What of Lancelot? He's sacrificed the thing that meant most to him, the trust of his commander, for me. I can't fathom why. I may be straddling the fence of delirium, but I'm not disoriented enough to think that his rough kisses mean anything beyond lust. Lancelot has his reasons and I have mine. So what does the callous knight mean to me?

"I am indebted to him." That explanation doesn't encompass the depths of our relationship. Do I love him? It's doubtful. Would I take an arrow for him? Without any doubt at all. Somewhere on this long road, unbeknownst to me, Lancelot and I were joined. I can feel his pain mingled on the outskirts of my own.

"Everyone seems to be beholden these days. The lot of you are pulling us all down with your damned honorable obligations." Gawain snorts disdainfully and I find myself laughing. It's such a strange sensation, the untamed giggles tumbling forth. Arthur tried to protect me because he felt he owed it to my father. I saved Arthur, and ultimately revealed Lancelot's crime, because I felt I owed it to him for protecting me!

"It cancels out," I chortle. Gawain looks as though I've finally leapt into the tide of insanity. "Arthur rescued me and I rescued him. We're even now."

"Aye, you can be the one to tell him though." Gawain joins my laughter. It's ridiculous the things people do. The world would be a less complicated place if none of us were honorable. We laugh until I begin to cry yet again. I collapse into the damp blankets, clutching my stomach, and let the fabric ceiling blur in my vision. We're all going to keep on saving each other until there's no one left.

* * *

~Lancelot~

"Eat," Bors orders as he drops a full plate, courtesy of the Roman envoy's provisions, at my feet. I ignore the cold clumps of food and reach for the mug. I never thought water could taste so strikingly disappointing.

"Ale," I snap, pushing the cup away.

"It won't do you any good, mate."

"Bring me the ale." Bors retrieves the mug I've refused. I hiss as its chilly contents are dumped over my head. Rivulets of water stream into my eyes, down the back of my neck, and into puddles that are quickly soaked up by the greedy earth.

"What the Hell?" I rage, leaping to my feet and shaking the beaded water from my hair. Bors throws the empty mug and I barely manage to dodge the soaring object before it collides with my face.

"If you're so intent on drowning, I'll be more than happy to hold your pretty, little head under, but you're not going to lose yourself in a bottle, Lancelot!" Bors roars.

"I'm going to do whatever damn well pleases me," I fire back, beyond reason or care. The water sizzles on my burning skin. He does not understand! I need to lose myself in something, because I hate this man currently inhibiting my body. I can't close my eyes without seeing the same image over and over again; Arthur walking away. In that moment I was a ten year old child once more waving farewell to his father with no hope of ever being reunited. Only this time it nobody's fault but my own. No Roman soldiers came to tear me away. I am a traitor, punished with exile.

I kick the platter of food. I am hungry, but I will not eat. It is good to feel the pangs of hunger and know that I am denying myself. I won't indulge in comfort unless it's one of oblivion. What have I done?

I tried to pin all of the blame on her. I remember my hands around her neck, the silence when she ceased to breathe, and then her simple question. _Why?_ It could mean so many things. _Why am I killing you? Why am I broken? Why am I even here?_

I sink to the edge of my sleeping mat and stare past Bors. In the end, I can't even give myself the pleasure of being angry. Self loathing roasts me to a char.

"Look here Lancelot," Bors begins; his voice unusually soft, yet still stern. It's the voice he uses with his children when they're shaming him. Who haven't I disappointed!

"You've had your time to brood, but we'll return to the wall soon and be discharged. I've held my tongue for long enough. If you don't work this nonsense out with Arthur now, you'll miss your chance to make it right."

"What do you expect me to do? March up to him and beg for forgiveness, plead that he'll overlook my treachery, and we can just pretend as though nothing happened," I scoff.

"Exactly." Bors thumps me roughly on the back. "Because if you don't, you're gonna regret this until the end of your pitiful days."

"It's not that easy!" I argue bitterly. Bors quirks one thick eyebrow. His ruddy face darkens in a frown as he pauses at the opening to my tent.

"But it is." He tries to catch my eyes, but I hide from him by counting the visible stitches in my filthy breeches. I haven't changed into the clean clothes gifted us by the Romans. They sit untouched on the ground, wrinkled from being trampled over in my mindless wanderings within the confines of this penitentiary. Bors pulls back the door flap. Hard rain pelts the earth mercilessly, beating it into submission.

"I never figured you for a coward, Lancelot," Bors grumbles, not bothering to look over his shoulder at me, the disgrace. He leaves me with my demons. I slump under the weight of his parting words. I never thought of myself as a coward until now either, but I cannot face Arthur only to watch him turn his back on me again. Thunder cuts across the sky, muffling my incensed roar of agony. As the rumble fades, my ears prick acutely at the sensitive intake of a breath that is not my own.

"Can't you just leave me be?" I rage, thinking that Bors has returned to poke at my disgruntled torment some more. Instead, my gaze locks on _her_. Seraphina is the last visitor I expected and the one I should have known would come. I'd think her a ghost come to haunt me if it weren't for the fear glowing in her dazed eyes. A transparent shift shimmers white in the dark as it hugs her rain kissed skin. She trembles, but whether it's from the cold or my lingering glare, I do not know.

"I can go," she whispers faintly. Every bit of me longs to send her away. What right does she have to be here? I know what she wants, forgiveness. I can see my desire mirrored in her stark face and in the way she kicks at the soggy ground with her bare foot. I want to deny her. And I can't. She's teetering on the edge of complete collapse. She won't remain standing for much longer.

"Stay." One word and I've crossed the line she's been so cautious to keep. Settling into monotonous instinct, I pick up the discarded clothes on the ground and brush them off. Seraphina does not move as I hold them out to her.

"You'll freeze," I state tonelessly, gesturing for her to take the proffered garments.

"Lancelot, I-"

"No!" Her voice around my name feels too much like one of the self-indulgences I've strived to avoid. "No," I repeat, throwing the dry clothes into her arms before turning around. After a ruffled sigh, I hear the low murmurs of fabric rustling.

"Tell me about Sarmatia." Seraphina's voice is uncomfortably close.

"You should be resting."

"I've slept enough. Tonight I want to hear a story."

"Once upon a time they all lived happily ever after," I grunt. The air between is too thin. I wish there was more keeping us apart. When I risk looking at her again, she's still in the same place, rocking gently on her heels. Barefoot, stubborn, and worried. The new tunic is deep blue, so dark it drains her peeked face of any color. She's waiting for something more and now that I've told her to stay I'm obligated to give it to her.

"I don't remember much about home," I admit reluctantly. "We didn't have grand forts such as the ones here and nothing remotely similar to the architecture I've heard they build in Rome. Life was simple. It followed a pattern; wake up, work, sleep, and wake up again. No surprises, just the everyday struggle to feed your family. It doesn't make for a brilliant bed time tale."

Seraphina is silent for a moment. Her brow creases in consternation and she wraps her arms around her frail body. Those stormy eyes are overly bright tonight. I wish she were blind.

"I like it." She finally announces her assessment. "I used to dream of adventure and now…well, now I dream of simplicity; working in the garden, caring for the horses, everyday things. Do you think we can ever go back to it?" She couples us together in a 'we' that ties a knot in my stomach. I know the answer she wants and I also know the one I must give.

"No. There's never any going back." Seraphina bows her head under my harsh truths. I don't want her here anymore, if I ever did in the first place. Her presence is a mockery to my self-inflicted exile.

"You should go."

"Where?" She peers up at me, completely directionless. I can't take her by the hand and lead her to a better place. Why must she always ask too much of me?

"Not here."

"I like it here." Her honesty chafes me. My fingers curl into fists as my blood begins to hiss. Why does she have to look so innocent tonight? I just want to hate her, blame her, destroy her.

"How dim-witted can you be?" I snap, unleashing my temper. It flares at the slightest instigation these days. I bridge the short distance between us and pin her frightened face between my hands. Her shallow breaths feed my fury.

"I do not want you here!" Even as the words leave my mouth in a bundle of acid intentions, I don't let her go. It's the one guilty pleasure, the single human comfort, I can't bring myself to push away. Seraphina doesn't shy away from my anger. She lays a tentative hand on my arm.

"I will not go." She twines her thin arms around my waist, binding me to her and anchoring me against the rising tide of hopelessness. All of my resistance crumbles. I hold her tightly, trying to merge our bodies into one being. I bury my face into her damp hair and inhale the very essence of her life. Seraphina doesn't struggle as I push her onto the coarse pile of blankets. I press her so hard into the ground that she bites back a yelp of pain. Hurting her sends tremors throughout my body. I twist her bruised arms until tears sparkle in those abysmal eyes. Still, she doesn't run.

"Lancelot, forgive me," she pleads. If only she knew I never really blamed her.

"Don't cry," I order, wiping away the moisture glistening upon her shamefully flushed cheeks.

"I never meant for any of this to happen." My grip loosens. All persisting traces of hatred are discarded by Seraphina's unguarded concern. She doesn't call me a coward or insist I confront Arthur. Instead, she cradles my head to her soft chest as I break down. I don't shed any tears. I don't wail and rant. I simply listen to Seraphina devour one breath and then another. I allow her to envelop me in the safety of her arms.

"Once upon a time." She caresses me with soothing whispers. "They all lived happily ever after."

* * *

**Sarah: **Thanks for your glowing review :D I'm glad I could give you a great day.

**PiscesWeb25: **Well, here is most definitely the aftermath. Kind of depressing...I couldn't kill off Dagonet though! It just wouldn't have fit in right.

**devilpup12: **I updated as asap as I could, so I sincerely hope you are not dead :O

**rebeccaS: **Well, Arthur's still pissy. Sorry. I won't keep them super mopey for long though...it does get tedious. However, I don't think they're going to "kiss and make up" as Galahad suggests. Haha.

**Valerie 18: **First off, I must say that fantabulous is not lame. I use it every now and again myself! Secondly, I was thrilled to recieve a review from a silent reader. It makes me giddy :D I hope you keep reading, whether silently or loud. Either one is okie doke!

**A/N: **School shall begin again soon. It puts a damper on writing creativity, but I'm trying to keep upbeat! R&R&enjoy.


	17. Chapter 17

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing that you recognize...and everything that you do not.

* * *

"_Nobody can give you freedom. _

_Nobody can give you equality of justice or anything._

_If you're a man, you take it."_

_-Malcolm X_

**SEVENTEEN**

~Seraphina~

Dagonet tosses and turns fitfully. His brow is furrowed as he slumbers. Regardless that I've centered all of my efforts on holding his injured leg steady, he winces as the cart continues to jolt along the primitive road winding out of the forest. I shed my cloak, twirl it into a ball, and place it under his knee to cushion the mangled limb.

"How is he?" Bors questions. He rides along side us, leading Mithras by the reigns, and rarely taking his eyes off of his fallen comrade.

"How do you think he is?" I snap, gripping Dagonet's ankle tighter as we bump over another rut in the road. Every second Bors asks the same damned thing. My patience, already spread thin, breaks completely. I flash Bors a glare, softening instantly when I see the torment on his once jovial face. I curb my sharp tongue regretfully.

"He is in pain," I murmur honestly, while lightly touching Dagonet's rough cheek. I've done my best to keep him comfortable on this last leg of our journey, but it's all to no avail. Neither of us was ready to travel, especially not him. It hurts to realize that I know nothing of Dagonet's dreams or the plans he's made once being freed. His future is frightfully dim now. A knight unable to fight and a man unable to walk. It's a blessing and a curse, but today it is just tragic.

Dagonet's eyelids flutter open as we jounce at another bump. He releases a subdued groan, the agony in his eyes unbearable. I smile in what I hope is reassurance and not mockery.

"Good morning glory," I chime, dabbing the cold sweat from his forehead in a simple gesture of companionship. Dagonet lifts his hand to mine briefly in thanks. Our unspoken conversation speaks multitudes. He is my friend and I am his. There is nothing quite so cut and dry as that.

"'Bout time you woke up, Sleeping Beauty." Bors' rowdy greeting shatters the serene moment between us. The boisterous knight leans over to inspect his comrade now that he's lucid again.

"We're not in shallow water yet, my friend, so it won't do you any good to faint out on us again," he grunts. Neither Dagonet nor I take his antagonizing words seriously. I help Dagonet prop himself up against the planks of wood stretched across the sides of the cart to keep us and the supplies from rolling out. The effort it takes just for him to rise to a sitting position is monumental. I tuck a blanket around him tightly, swiping away bits of hay and dirt.

These soldiers couldn't even supply us with a clean blanket! One that wasn't used in a horse's stall. After reviving from my illness, I explored the camp, with Galahad never far away, only to discover how irksome the Roman soldiers could be. They hustle and bustle, jeer and jest, and frankly have no common sense or respect whatsoever. They march around with their shining armor and ornate swords wearing haughty expressions whenever one of the knights passes by. As though they're so much better! I'd like to tell them a thing or two about what we've faced. The worst of it is the way they watched me in the beginning, with ravenously contemptuous eyes.

I've heard them whisper, lacking any amount of furtiveness, about me; the Princessa who looks more like a drowned pup. They think I'm helpless, and there's no denying I feel that way at times, but I chafe at their judgment none the less. Who are these polished warriors to deem me unfit? They ride their high horses, but they don't know what it is like to trudge along on foot through the sleet and rain like I do. Guinevere tells me to ignore them. She's much more accustomed to the soldiers than I, having been stranded in their lair for so long, but I can't help but loathe them. Is this my father's Rome? A group of toy soldiers with inflated egos? I sincerely hope not.

Bors growls menacingly under his breath as one of the men gallop past, making sure to pin us with an arrogant glance. Unable to contain my annoyance any longer, I slip off one of my boots, cock my head to the side, squint at the center of my targets back, and lunge the shoe forward. It collides solidly into the man's head with a dull thud. He spins around, glaring mutinously. Bors, however, matches his glare with one of his own, daring the man to so much as make a peep of protest.

"Impressive marksmanship," Dagonet says lightly. His lips twitch in the first sign of amusement I've seen since he was injured.

"I missed," I admit. "Meant to hit him in the back." Bors' ample stomach shakes as he belts out a chorus of laughter. Dagonet chuckles and even I feel a slight flush of ease. All of this violence may be tedious nowadays, but I can't deny it's nice to hit something again.

All humor recedes when Lancelot appears. He falls back in ranks to the opposite side of the cart from Bors.

"I believe this belong to you, my lady." Lancelot drops my discarded boot into my lap. Our eyes lock for an interminable second, just long enough to spur my discomfort. We haven't spoken in the week sense I went to his tent, but I haven't forgotten the weight of his head on my chest. The next morning, Lancelot resurfaced half the man he once was, but present nonetheless. I still don't know whether he's forgiven me. I like to think so, even if I don't deserve it.

Lancelot and Arthur are still distant. They only communicate when necessary, such as when Arthur issues orders and Lancelot complies silently. Sometimes I see the cast away devastation beneath the layers of his heartless fortifications. I tried to comfort him the best I could, but I am no Arthur.

Lancelot smirks halfheartedly before returning to his place ahead of us. I focus intently on returning my boot to its rightful place. My cold fingers are clumsy on the difficult laces. I'm so caught up in tying them that I don't realize Dagonet is calling my name until he places a gentle touch on my shoulder. I startle, giving Bors another good laugh.

"What's got you so antsy, lass? You act as though you've seen a dead man sprung from the grave." _May as well have_, I think bitterly, thinking of Lancelot and Arthur. Both of them too stubborn and proud. Yes, Arthur proud! Who would have thought he'd be just as bad as Lancelot when it comes to the nitty gritty of the matter? Guinevere's worn herself to the bone trying to convince her lover to simply talk to Lancelot.

I've spent a good deal of time with the woman in the past few days of our respite with the Romans. She's certainly a character the likes of which I've never come across, but her company has proved to be a much needed distraction. We don't talk about our current situation or our pasts. Often times we gossip like women our age are supposed to. She tells me about life at the fort and the tale of how she and Arthur came to meet. It's a beautiful story in its own way. At least the ending is semi-joyous.

In the beginning, I was a bit uncomfortable in her presence. My few encounters with Woads and the things I heard about them when I was younger, haven't given me a good taste for her people. My mother's people, I guess. Strangely enough, it wasn't until I set out on this mission that I ever contemplated my half-breed existence. It was all too easy to forget my mother was once a Woad. She could have passed for any other Roman woman. I wonder if I'll be able to do the same. Or if I even want to.

"Stop thinking so hard. You're giving me a headache." Galahad fills the empty space left behind by Lancelot's short visit. He smiles down at me, full of untainted excitement. Galahad's mood has definitely soared in the past days. His high spirits are much like Guinevere's easy conversation; a balm to my sore heart and mind. He'll be free soon. While I'm undeniably jealous, I know he deserves it and I'm happy that he'll be able to begin the life he never should have been denied in the first place. I'll miss Galahad when this is over, more than the others, though it will be another pain to lose all of them, even Gawain on some level; but Galahad has been my faithful partner from the very beginning.

"Perhaps your head would not ache so if it were more acquainted to doing some thinking itself," I tease light heartedly. Galahad feigns hurt, placing his hands over his heart and widening his clear eyes in mock indignation.

"Lady, you kill me with your bitter words, and here I came to give you good news!" Bors rolls his eyes at our childish behaviors, but my ears prick at the term 'good news'. We haven't had much…any…of it lately.

"Fine, tell me of this news." Galahad looks away, folding his arms defiantly over his chest.

"I don't think I shall now that I've been so horribly slighted."

"Galahad!" I cry exasperatedly.

"Stop trying to be coy, boy, and tell her what you've come to say," Dagonet intervenes calmly, before I can dive into a complete temper. Galahad pretends to contemplate for a moment, before another blindingly bright grin breaks over his face.

"In just a few seconds you, my dear lady, will see your first glimpse of our glorious Wall."

Sure enough, when my eyes follow the invisible line of Galahad's pointed finger, I see Hadrians Wall rise as we peek the crest of a slight slope. My first reaction is disappointment. The shoddy structure stretching before us, winding along the country side like a serpent, is nothing compared to the fantasies in my mind. Something so meaningful, the beginning of my new life possibly and the line between Rome and the Woads, is a handful of roughly hewn stones slapped together to form a barrier no more than eleven feet in height and laughably easy to climb.

"This is what protects Rome's hold?" I ask, disdain dripping from my tone.

"Aye, with help from us of course," Bors replies. One wall, seven men, and a contingent of prissy soldiers. Oh, I wager that the Emperor sleeps easy at night knowing his land in Briton is so well defended from the scours of Woads and Saxons crawling just on the other side of the _magnificent_ Hadrians Wall.

"What do you think?" Galahad chirps. I can't comprehend the pride in his tone.

"Well, it's certainly…definitely a wall with…oh; I think that this is the most pitiful thing I've ever seen!" To my surprise, the three of them laugh at my frustrated exclamation.

"What'd you except, lass, a heaven high fortress?" Bors chortles.

"Something like that," I huff. Dagonet smiles sympathetically, but I want none of that now. "Honestly, it's as though Rome doesn't care a lick for the safety of Briton, with such meager defenses."

"Oy, we're hardly meager!" Bors protests, only to be ignored. Galahad's expression has grown stony. I recognize the look as his 'gods how I hate Rome' face.

"Of course they don't care about safety," he spits venomously. "Sera, Rome just wants the power of controlling everyone and everything. They don't give two shits about what happens to their conquests afterwards."

"They don't even give one shit," Bors adds under his breath.

"No, I won't believe it." I cross my arms and stare ahead stubbornly. Rome may not be living up to my standards so far, but I won't allow myself to be turned against my father's country. It is everything he believed in! How many times did he preach the virtues of Rome? The knights are angry, understandable as it is, they can't look at Rome without tainted thoughts. Surely they exaggerate. Surely…it cannot be true.

"Believe or don't. You'll learn for yourself soon enough." I don't acknowledge that I've heard Galahad. We approach the Wall in absolute silence. For the time being, there is nothing more to be said. As we pass through the scarred gates of the Wall, into the safe territory of Roman control, I don't feel any more at ease than I did stranded in Woad land with Saxons on our tails; and I can't rid myself of the sense that we've just stepped from one war into another.

It absolutely cannot be true.

* * *

I have stepped, more like been shoved, into another universe. Unconsciously, I migrate inappropriately close to Galahad and hold onto his arm to keep from sinking under the sea of confusion. Never in my life have I been in a place such as this, the Fort behind Hadrians Wall. Everywhere people swirl around us in flashes of skirts, shouts, and curious glances. Their eyes find me cowering into Galahad, wide eyed and terrified. The noise of clattering hooves on cobblestones, children whining as they cling to their ornery mother's, and rowdy men crashing along oblivious to anything other than their own ego's. So this is civilization.

I'm so overwhelmed by the sights, sounds, and even smells, that I don't notice the other knights have suddenly gone rigid. Only when silence trickles over the courtyard do I see the unimpressive man approaching with two formidable guards at his sides. He's quite bald, with thick, grey eyebrows, and a trimmed beard to match. His elegant robes, of the deepest, midnight black, must signify some high office, but I am unfamiliar with the Roman code of dress. He isn't remarkably tall, but something in the way he carries himself, as though he were the one and only God, adds ten feet to his height. When he smiles widely I'm reminded of a predator bearing down on its helpless prey. He slithers towards Arthur like a devious snake prepared to spit a string of venom.

"Let her go." Lancelot's voice makes me jump. I glance to find him standing firmly behind me and nodding to Galahad's arm wrapped possessively around my waist. Reluctantly, Galahad heeds his order, but both of them remain close.

"Artorius, at last you have returned!" The man's voice is heavily accented and dripping with falsity. Papa always taught us never to judge, but I find myself instantly distrusting this man.

"Bishop Germanius." Arthur acknowledges the man curtly, his green eyes flashing. I recognize the name. Guinevere's mentioned him from time to time. He's the Bishop sent from Rome to keep watch over Arthur. Well, it's apparent the two men clash. I didn't think Arthur could become any colder than he's been since he learned of Lancelot's betrayal, but now he is nothing but stone. I see Guinevere rest a supportive hand against the small of Arthur's back, the gesture nearly concealed behind the fabric of their cloaks.

"I am overjoyed that you are in good health, my friend. Rome would have been heartbroken if we had lost such a worthy man," Bishop Germanius exclaims. I don't buy a single word of it. If Arthur is so loved by Rome, why would they send a sly Bishop to spy on him? Perhaps Galahad was not lying after all…

"We were delayed by circumstances beyond our control, my Lord," Arthur informs coolly.

"Ah yes, I am well aware of your adventures." The Bishop's steely gaze falls on me, still stunned and standing with the knights. Even Dagonet, confined to the cart, reaches for the hilt where his sword once was when Bishop Germanius steps towards me, his robes billowing. The pressure of Lancelot's hand against my hip is the only thing that keeps me from fleeing. I can practically hear Galahad grinding his teeth together as the Bishop cups my face in his heavily ringed hand.

"Lady Seraphina," he says quietly. "What a relief to see you are alive. It is a shame that your family did not share the same fate."

"Perhaps if we had not been exiled, they would have," I say sharply. Lancelot squeezes my side in a warning and I'm forced to choke back a yelp of pain.

"Ah yes." The Bishop removes his hand from my face, frowning slightly. "It is no wonder that you are upset. I did not expect you to understand."

"Understand?" I sputter, ignoring Lancelot's tightening grip. This man has the gumption to speak to me as though I am incapable of thinking on his level.

"Tell me Bishop, what have I misunderstood."

"Your father, God rest his soul, sealed his own fate. He discarded our traditions by marrying a heathen."

"That heathen was my mother and she was a better Christian than you shall ever be!" My wrathful scream echoes into every corner of this forsaken fort. Bishop Germanius no longer bothers with his polite façade. His expression darkens quickly.

"I will forgive your discrepancies on account of your less than satisfactory upbringing and the emotional distress you surely have encountered."

"Oh, and what is your excuse for being an arrogant arse?" Bishop Germanius's hand is in the air as soon as the curse leaves my tongue. In the blink of an eye, I'm thrown behind Lancelot.

"I suggest you lower your hand, Bishop," Lancelot murmurs. His dark eyes flash dangerously. In that instance, Bishop Germanius shrinks, but does not submit.

"You dare to give me orders, knight?" he hisses.

"Actually, I'm quite sure he made a suggestion." Arthur joins Lancelot's side loyally.

"Artorius-"

"Bishop Germanius, we have traveled far. My men and Lady Seraphina are exhausted." Arthur's tone squanders any further arguments the fuming Bishop might have had. It takes a second for him to regain his smug composure. My blood continues o boil and I'd long to throw a boot into his face as well as I did earlier today. It could not make him any uglier.

"Of course," Bishop Germanius says lightly. "There is much to discuss, but it shall wait until you have settled. Pardon my poor manners." His eyes burn me once more, making me seethe with fury. "Lady Seraphina. Artorius." He addresses each of us formally before turning to depart with his guards. No one moves until he is far from sight.

There is an awkward moment where Arthur, Lancelot, and I stand together after so many days of wandering as far from one another as possible. We were united in a common dislike of the sly Bishop, but now that he's gone, our brief truce begins to melt swiftly.

"We are no longer in the wilderness," Arthur states sternly, emerald eyes boring into me without mercy. "You would do best to cease behaving like a wild beast." No witty reply comes to mind before Arthur leaves, the first to break our momentary bond, with Guinevere scurrying after him dutifully. Lancelot and I are left alone. His gaze follows his commanders, openly lonely for a flash of time, before he turns to me and all of his frozen apathy returns.

"Don't be a fool, Sera, not here." He taps my temple with his index finger. "You must use your head."

"Fine words from a man buried in his own self pity," I retort before I can stop myself. Lancelot represses a grimace. I know I should apologize, but I just can't bring myself to do it. He brushes my hair away from my face. I hate the silence.

"Say something," I demand. Both of us could care less about the people taking in our private moment with distaste. They don't understand.

"What would you like to hear, Princessa?" Those words make me shiver from the memory they bring. We've had this short conversation before, the night I would have given myself to him in exchange for lessons. It's all so long ago and yet so close.

"Tell me I'm a fool. Insult me. Just tell me we'll be alright, Lancelot." He brings his lips to my ear.

"You are certainly still a fool, but I do not blame you for anything." I close my eyes, flooded with relief, and when I open them once more, Lancelot is gone.

* * *

~Arthur~

"Where've you been, you great oaf! Cavorting all over Briton?"

"Now listen here, woman-"

"Don't _woman_ me! I should have married a nice Roman man when I had the chance, instead of becoming the mistress of a Sarmatian knight, no less! My father's probably upside down in his grave at the very thought of it."

"Ain't no one forcing you to stay!"

"Of course not. You won't even marry me!"

Vanora's screeches infiltrate the secluded corner of the tavern Guinevere and I have nestled into. I peer over the top of my mug to watch the familiar scene of the two lovers'. After a bit more tongue lashing, Bors silences his feisty woman with a rough kiss.

"Must be nice," Guinevere sighs wistfully. She's watching them as well. Her hands are fisted together on the table; long and slender fingers twisted and nails digging into the sticky table. Her dark eyes are chips of hard marble and her lips are pulled in such a tight line they're nearly invisible. I should touch her, say something kind, but I can't muster the will. Bors and Vanora disappear to the cheering of the other tavern patrons. I have no doubt that he'll wed her someday.

"Well?" Guinevere turns to me huffily, one eyebrow arched in expectation. I never know what exactly it is she expects of me though.

"What do you want?" I realize it's the wrong thing to have said only too late.

"Oh, I don't know, Arthur. It'd be nice for you to talk to me, or look at me if the other is too much to ask." Though it shouldn't be, both of her requests seem above my capability. I gaze into my mug, disgusted with my own reflection on the surface of the ale. Since when do I drink?

"There's nothing to talk about," I state duly. Guinevere's hands slam against the table, causing my ale to spill over the brim. The amber rivulets stream onto the floor, splashing melodically. Simple things are fascinating when you're trying to avoid the complex.

"There is everything to talk about!" She yells in a whisper. "Talk to him."

"Do not begin this again." I meet her eyes ferociously, sucking in a deep breath. Why does she insist on nagging me so? She doesn't understand that I cannot confront Lancelot. I wouldn't know what to say.

"I would not need to begin anything if you could grow up and end it," Guinevere snaps. She can be such a shrew at times. It only worsens matters when she's right. And Guinevere is generally right. I chug the remaining dregs of my ale. There is a ring on the table from where my mug has been sitting; a perfect circle. I wipe away the moisture with my sleeve.

"I have an audience with Bishop Germanius," I announce, pointlessly as she's already aware of the fact.

"He would have struck her," Guinevere sneers. "Such a righteous man, your Bishop."

I resent that she calls him _my_ Bishop. The man is no such thing. He is an official of the church, and as such I am obligated to obey him in word and deed, but not faith. What if Lancelot felt much the same with me? The thought stings, though I know it is not true. It matters not whether my men followed me out of loyalty or imprisonment, for they shall be free today and I will no longer be responsible for them. It has been as much a curse as a blessing.

I rise reluctantly, not wishing to leave the tavern with its carefree atmosphere for the Bishop's stifling conference room. Retrieve their discharge papers, return to Rome, and forget these past fifteen years ever occurred. I'm not sure where that leaves Guinevere in my plans.

On a last whim, I stride back to our table and kiss her forehead gently, the first gesture of affection I've shown since we were reunited. Her cold fury gives way to confusion.

"Arthur?"

"I love you." Again with the beauty of simple things. Three words we never speak enough in a crowded tavern with alcohol in the spaces between each syllable. Guinevere shakes her head warily, a first smile hidden on her lips.

"Of course you do, dear. Go fight with your Bishop. I'll wait for you." Another kiss, hesitant and unsure, and I depart with a heart and mind armored for battle. If only Guinevere could follow me into this conference room.

It was difficult for me to trust her again, or anyone for that matter. I'm only just beginning to retrieve a bit of sense. Still, it is not enough. Damn Lancelot! I asked him to do one last thing. Keep Seraphina safe.

Now I'm not sure if I'm avoiding him because of his betrayal or because I was wrong. There, I have admitted it. How many times has Guinevere conveyed, with brutal honesty, that I am only human, prone to make mistakes? This is one of my worst. Perhaps the realization struck when Bishop Germanius raised his hand at Seraphina and I was too far away to bring it down, but Lancelot did. I have never seen him in such a way. It was how he shielded the girl, defended her, without any command from me. It was his free will to defy Bishop Germanius and free will says more of a man than what he does under order.

I assume I've always known Lancelot did not purposefully hurt me. My men hold me in such high esteem, but I cannot even bring myself to admit my fault. Neither can he, of course that doesn't lessen the blame from my shoulders. If I had not made it my mission to save her, Dagonet would be strolling through the fort contentedly and Lancelot would not be drowning in self loathing. How can I go to Rome a hero when I have left two of my men in shambles?

That question remains unanswered as I'm escorted into Bishop Germanius's chamber. He's waiting for me at the head of the table with a polished mahogany box set before him. Disregarding social protocol, Germanius skips the traditional greeting, and unlatches the box. The lid is removed to reveal six rolls of parchment, six tickets to freedom.

"Fifteen years is quite a long time," Germanius drawls, watching me closely for any sign of insubordination. He will not have been pleased by our encounter in the courtyard. I took Lancelot's side, a Sarmatian dog in his eyes, against a holy Roman man's. It is no wonder Rome is wary of me. If you lie down with the dogs, eventually you share their flees. That is how I am viewed, flea-ridden.

"Thankfully those fifteen years has come to an end. My men will be pleased to return home." I chose my words carefully, monitoring my tone and movements with a practiced precision. It is the way of our world, polite politics and subtle meanings beyond the surface of words.

"Ah, no one can blame them for wishing to leave this wretched isle. Especially with the Saxons leering closer."

"I was under the impression that the Saxons were retreating. I cannot say I trust the movement, but…"

"It is trustworthy for the moment." Bishop Germanius speaks as though he knows something. I recall Guinevere's report on the Bishop's Saxon visitor and the final words of our prisoner. _Ask your Bishop._

"I have heard rumors of a deal with the Saxons, my Lord." Desperately, I cling to the thin hope that he'll deny my accusation.

"You have heard correct." I should have known by now not to trust in hope. "And unfortunately," Bishop Germanius continues coldly, "It involves one last mission for your men."

Bishop Germanius replaces the lid of the box, ushering six freedoms into the dark once more.

* * *

~Galahad~

"Don't miss!" I cry as loud as I can, just as Sera prepares to toss a dagger at the target. Distracted by my call, the knife flies wildly through the tavern and embeds itself firmly into the wall, a good five feet away from the target. Bors nearly rolls to the floor, laughing at the irritated Princessa.

"I'd like my five coins, my Lady." I hold out my hand expectantly.

"Wouldn't we all," Gawain snorts into his ale. The sprite maiden balanced on his lap giggles drunkenly.

"And what makes you think I have any currency whatsoever?" Sera snaps, hands on her hips defiantly.

"You are royalty, are you not?"

"And you're a cheat. I call a rematch." Sera barrels through the rowdy crowd to retrieve our daggers, only to discover that hers has landed far out of reach. She steals a nearby chair and proceeds to clamber into the seat. The chair wobbles dangerously as she stretches her arm towards the dagger. I step forward, ready to break her inevitable fall, but am too far away. The chair tips and Sera is sent sliding. Opposed to meeting the ground, however, she topples onto none other than our scowling scout just entering the tavern. The two of them lie sprawled over the floor, Sera howling manically as she laughs and Tristan at a loss for words…though it isn't uncharacteristic behavior on his part.

"I'll be damned, Tristan! Finally a woman who can knock you off your feet!" Bors bellows, slapping his knee. Gawain sputters, sending a shower of ale over his lap dog. Even Lancelot, who has been brooding into his mug all night, cracks a hesitant grin as Tristan rises, still a bit stunned. He sends a frightening glare to Bors before joining us sulkily. Sera is close behind.

"Got it!" she cries cheerfully, holding up both daggers as she collides into me, knocking us into the bench. I hold her wrists in the air to avoid being sliced by one of the daggers she's so carelessly wielding. She gives them to me in order to grab my mug and take a large swallow. Sera downs the entire thing.

"You've gotten her drunk?" Tristan questions, one eyebrow raised.

"She's only had one cup," I argue.

"Probably the first in her life," Gawain adds, glancing at our tipsy Princessa. Sera turns her gaze to all of us, her eyes glazed. She frowns for a moment before releasing a rather crude belch that sends Bors into another fit. Quickly, she covers her mouth and flushes bright red.

"Oh!" she giggles. I push her off of my lap and she plops on the bench next to me in a fluster of skirts. It's strange to see her clothed as a woman should be; no baggy tunics and breeches, though she's still wearing the borrowed pair of Dagonet's extra boots. She refused to trade them in for the dainty footwear Vanora tried to provide. I suspect it has as much to do with the boot's previous owner as anything else, some odd tribute to Dagonet restricted to bed while the rest of celebrate our freedom.

"Come to Sarmatia with me," I blurt, not altogether sober myself. Tonight I could care less about propriety or Rome. Sera doesn't belong here any more than we do, not with that filthy Bishop. Sera blinks at me in shock.

"Lad, you've got no charm," Bors chortles. "You've got to at least bed a woman before taking her home."

"Tell me, does that really work?" Gawain snorts sarcastically.

"Well, it did for me and Vanora."

"Full of horse shit, he is," the fiery red head exclaims, coming around to refill our mugs. Bors lunges to catch her, but Vanora slips away easily and disappears just as stealthily as she arrived.

"He don't know nothin' 'bout women, boys, so don't buy a bit of his rubbish!" she calls over the crowd.

"Don't know nothing about women," Bors grumbles. "I know a hell of a lot more than Galahad."

"And what would I do in Sarmatia?" Sera asks, bringing us back to my hasty suggestion.

"Darn my socks, cook my meals…" My list ends with a hard slap across the back of the head.

"You are in so fur…in suffer fulled…in-sa-frooo…"

"Insufferable," Tristan supplies from the other end of the table. Sera claps her hands together childishly.

"That's the one!"

"Vanora, more drinks!" Bors roars. "And come darn Galahad's socks while you're at it, cause ain't no one else gonna do it."

"Bet she'd cook for Lancelot, wouldn't you, girlie?" Gawain teases. Sera's blush deepens, but Lancelot, surprising all of us, laughs.

"Aye, and poison me with valerian." The two of them exchange secretive glances that are beyond me.

"Valerian?" I stammer, finding the word uncomfortable on my leaden tongue.

"Oh, I'll tell you someday," Sera sighs. "In Sarmatia."

"So you'll come with me?"

"Or after you!" Bors shouts. The woman in Gawain's lap collapses on the table. He pokes her for a bit before slumping over in defeat.

"Guess I'll have to find another one," he sighs.

"'O course I'm gonna come with you. Better than anywhere with hoity toity Bi…Bi…Bisho…"

"Bishops." Tristan comes to the rescue once more, looking slightly amused by the state or our Princessa, who has begun to hiccup.

"Cheers to that!" Bors holds his mug over Gawain's comatose wench, ale splashing onto her dirty dress. We clink our glasses to his. For once, the world is as it should be.

"To freedom!" I declare.

"And socks!" Sera finishes.

"Arthur!" Every head in the room turns to Arthur at Bors' summons. It takes one look, just one glance, for the world to fall apart again.

"Come join us!" Bors continues, oblivious to our commander's expression, guilty and agonized. He crosses the room to us as though each step is one closer to the gallows.

"Cheers to Arthur," Gawain cries. No one raises their mug this time. Arthur's eyes roam over each of us, full of longing and regret. I'm not drunk enough to not notice he skips over Sera completely.

"Men, you have served me faithfully over the years." His gaze flickers over Lancelot briefly.

"Aye, and where are our beautiful paper?" Bors grins, already holding out his hands to receive his discharge papers that are nowhere to be seen. Perhaps Arthur is hiding our freedom beneath his tunic. Arthur stares intently at the wall, but his words remain firm.

"However, Rome requests one more thing of you."

"Since when have they ever made a request? It's always been orders," Gawain scoffs. The true depth of his words haven't quite hit us yet, with the exception of Tristan and Lancelot who are perfectly clear headed. As for me, my mind is a whirl of befuddlement.

"It is Bishop Germanius's wish that we deliver Lady Seraphina to her betrothed."

"My what?" Sera stutters, grasping at thin air for understanding. As are we all. Arthur continues with his speech as though we are not even present.

"We are to attend her wedding in representation of Rome and-"

"Wedding?" Sera screeches as it finally sinks in. She is on her feet in a second, teetering precariously. The tavern falls to silence.

"I'm not bloody betrothed," she hisses.

"It is Rome's intent that Lady Seraphina wed the son of Cerdic." Arthur refuses to look at her. I feel as though I'm being crushed by a stampede of war horses. Seraphina is eerily motionless.

"Cerdic," she whispers. "King of the Saxons."

"Arthur, this is ridiculous!" I finally find my words, regardless that they're slurred and ineloquent.

"We leave in two day's. Time is of the utmost importance." With that, Arthur turns to flee, but does not make it far.

"LOOK AT ME!" Sera screams frantically, clutching Arthur's arm. He grants her wish and for the first time, I see a glimmer of true sorrow.

"Do I have no say?" Her voice cracks into a million different meanings.

"No." Arthur pries her fingers loose.

"Artorius!" Bors shouts at our commander's retreating figure. "WE ARE FREE!" Tristan is the first to stand, his face unreadable.

"Not yet," he states emotionlessly. "Not ever." He brushes past us, following Arthur's path of abandonment. Bors launches his mug against the wall. It shatters. Gawain buries his face in his hands, hiding from us and the truth. Lancelot has already gone without my knowing it, slipped away into the night. Then there is Sera.

She stands where Arthur left her with a blank expression. There is no anger and no sorrow. She watches impassively as they toss her into the fire, helpless as she dissolves to ash under their holy preaching's.

I could taste freedom, fresh berries and fruit. Now it is rotting meat.

"Don't miss," I murmur. No one hears me. We're a good lifetime away from the target anyways.

* * *

**rebeccaS:** Of course it's not over!! Really, it's only just begun...well actually, this part of the story is coming to a close. There's still one big journey to go though.

**A/N: **Hm, so I wrote this in one day. Which, in case you didn't know, is quite the effort. I decided that things have been so depressing, I had to add in a few little funny moments, although over all, this chapter isn't very happy either! Those damned, dirty Romans. What're you gonna do about them?!? Reviews are welcome...let me know what you think about this bombshell to the plot, please!! Enjoy.


	18. Chapter 18

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing that you recognize, and probably everything that you do not.

* * *

"_Everyone should carefully observe which way his heart draws him,_

_and then choose that way with all of his strength."_

_-Hasidic saying_

**EIGHTEEN**

~Seraphina~

"Where is he?" I push my words out between tightly clenched teeth, surprised that any sound comes through at all. A Roman soldier, propped against the Tavern wall, gazes down on me with unconcealed contempt. Still disoriented from the drink and Arthur's unwelcome news, I'm in no mood to play games. The blade once concealed beneath my cumbersome dress flashes with vehemence as I hold it steadily to the man's throat, directly above the polished clasp of his cloak and over his pulsing jugular. Perhaps somewhere in the turmoil of my thoughts, I'm aware of the recklessness of this action. At the forefront of my mind, however, is one purpose; find the Bishop and make him bleed.

"I shall ask again. Where is Bishop Germanius?" It's apparent the soldier is stunned at my daring. More than likely I'll be just as amazed when I regain my wits, if that day should ever occur.

"I wouldn't know!" The man glances around wildly. He's without his sword; I was sober enough to take notice of that. I don't doubt that he could crush me with his pinky finger, but I have a weapon much more powerful than a pathetic dagger; fury. He's intimidated and alone with no one to restrain me as we're shadowed from the rest of his drunken companions.

"I suggest you think of a better answer," I growl, pressing on the blade bit by bit to emphasize each word.

"I haven't been here long, Lady, and I sure as Hell can't tell you where the Bishop spends his time."

"Praying." Tristan materializes from the dark. His menacing profile is sharpened by the flickering of dim torchlight. In my momentary distraction, the Roman snatches his opportunity. He seizes my arm and twists it behind my back. The dagger clatters to the cobble stones and is kicked out of reach by his boot.

"Rotten witch," the soldier hisses as I struggle, "I'll teach you a lesson about propriety."

"Her skull's thicker than the wall. It won't sink in," Tristan advises in a detached tone. He crosses his arms over his chest, watching with blank eyes as I fight a losing battle with the soldier. The man grunts as my elbow ricochets off of an unarmored expanse of flesh and bone. I dive for my dagger, only to discover it's nowhere to be seen. The soldier retrieves me by the hair, yanking my head back until tears prick at the corners of my eyes. He throws me effortlessly against the tavern wall. I slide to the ground, racked with pain, and prepared to continue. The soldier bears down on me, his putrid breath stinging my nose.

"The penalty for assaulting a Roman guard is death," he sneers.

"She's already been sentenced." Tristan pushes the man aside, seeming to have decided it was time to intervene. He lifts to my feet carelessly, all the while daring the man to renew the teaching of his _lesson_. Arthur's scout looks positively feral tonight. Smarter than he appears, the Roman soldier holds up his hands in surrender. Tristan isn't the type you want to brawl with in a secluded alley.

"Bloody Sarmatians," he curses, while skittering away, looking the worse for wear. The moment his red cape flutters out of sight, I round on Tristan bringing the palm of my hand across his face hard.

"What'd you do that for?" I screech. Tristan clasps my wrists together and pins me roughly to the wall. His amber eyes glint ominously and for a moment I forget my anger as cold fear spreads through my blood stream, momentarily cooling my temper.

"Never do that again." Tristan measures each word carefully, infusing them with barely controlled rage.

"Oh, don't order me about," I snap, regardless of the inevitable consequence. Tristan's grip tightens until the veins in my wrists seer and the flow of blood is broken. Numbness spreads from the tips of my fingers and on downwards.

"Tristan!" I cry in frustration, squirming in his hold. "Let me go!" He does. I stumble forward when the pressure of his solid form disappears. The scout's expression has returned to its distant intensity. I turn to leave, still determined to find the Bishop, only to be halted once more when Tristan steps lithely in front of me, barricading my way.

"It is unwise to seek him out now." The all knowing scout, already in tune to my mission. I attempt to step around him, but he anticipates my every move.

"What would you have me do?" I rage, giving up on sneaking past him.

"Go to your quarters and sleep."

"Sleep!" My voice is pitched with disbelief. Has he gone daft? "How am I to sleep with my impending marriage to a…to a Saxon Prince looming overhead?" By saying it, I've brought the awful truth to light. Arthur didn't even have the courage to look at me, let alone explain his unexpected news. I need answers. I need to kill Bishop Germanius before he can bestow that hospitality to me. If my hazy mind isn't deceiving me, Tristan's eyes soften for a flickering instance.

"Nothing will be accomplished tonight, Lady Seraphina. Your judgment is clouded."

"OF COURSE IT IS!" Tristan and I are left in the aftermath of my echoing scream, trying to break the other down. "I must face him now. I…I don't understand any of this."

I expect him to deny my unspoken plea. He'll drag me to my rooms and cage me inside with my questions. The not knowing will kill me before anything else. Why this?

Tristan reaches into his tunic and slides my lost dagger from the fabric. He offers it to me, balanced in his scarred palm.

"I shall take you to him." Tristan's hand closes into a fist once the dagger is in my possession once more. I have not forgotten that he was the one to give it to me. There is no need to thank him. Tristan does not give me the chance anyways. I follow him silently through the labyrinth of alleys, trusting him to lead me in the right direction. Tristan is not the type to resort to trickery.

We stop suddenly at what I vaguely recognize to be the knight's quarters, packed tightly beside the stables and the fortress wall. Tristan ducks inside and I remain his faithful follower. We glide down the quiet corridors, ascend a flight of marble steps, and come to a final halt before a set of wide doors with iron hinges the size of my hand. Voices waft from inside and, by the muffled undertone, I know the conversation is not a pleasant one.

"Where-?" I glance to the empty place Tristan was moments before. My eyes swivel through the eerie shadows, searching for the equally frightening scout. He's no where to be seen, but that doesn't mean much where Tristan is concerned. He could probably go unnoticed three inches in front of my face. As it is, I cannot find him now. Oddly enough, without his company, I no longer feel sure of myself. Perhaps it's the ale leaving my system that makes my arms tremble and my breath quaver as I push open the heavy doors.

I notice two things simultaneously; Arthur and the Bishop were the whispered voices and Lancelot lied about the round table being shoddy craftsmanship. I'm oblivious to the two men, captivated by the irony of this moment. The round table, Arthur's faith in equality, will more than likely be the setting for my imprisonment.

"Lady Seraphina!" Bishop Germanius' sleek greeting reminds me of why I have come. I seek out the man whose name has been carved into the tip of my dagger. My eyes narrow until I'm hardly able to see his imperious façade. Arthur steps towards me; his eyes still centered a little past mine, but admonishing and wary nonetheless. I'd rather he weren't here.

"Why?" I leap headfirst into the matter, disregarding any subtle play on words. I want the truth without flowery explanations and polite dialogues.

"It is necessary." The Bishop waves his hand dismissively, much like his answer. I gravitate closer to the table. The three of us stand on the outside of the circle, across from one another, and I can't help wondering who is at the head. Who holds the power?

"My marriage to a Saxon Lord is necessary? Please, feel free to elaborate."

"To acquire peace, sacrifices must be made, Lady Seraphina." The Bishop speaks carefully, as though explaining some difficult concept to a child. I know of sacrifice, but what has this pompous man with golden rings and rich robes given up?

"As you are aware, the Saxons came incredibly close to breeching Hadrians Wall."

"Of course I am aware, Bishop," I spit. How could I not be aware when they were snapping at our heels for half of the time? "But they have retreated." Arthur grimaces as the Bishop acquires a self-satisfied grin. The faint inkling of understanding churns in the pits of my stomach. My fingers clench into my skirts as I try to hide my trembling.

"They have retreated," I repeat slowly. "This is the deal, isn't it? I am to be a compensation?"

"Briton in exchange for a Roman Princessa," Arthur confirms sullenly.

"It is an alliance, Lady Seraphina. Cerdic's son will be recognized by Rome as your lawful husband. We will respect their territory in the north and they will make no further moves to broach our hold in Briton. Everyone wins." I stare at the Bishop disbelievingly, floundering for words. Everyone does not win, I long to tell him. What of me? They cannot send me into wedlock to one of those demons like a parcel of dried meat.

"I will not do it," I declare, straightening to my full height. Arthur finally turns his eyes away from me completely, perhaps out of shame or sorrow. He does not come to my defense, the man who has risked so much to keep me safe, and now he simply watches as they ship me into the hands of the Devil himself. Why does he say nothing? Bishop Germanius' pleased grin widens.

"Ah, you will, Lady Seraphina." His despicable voice is edged with danger. I prepare myself for what is to come, sensing it in the air.

"For if you refuse to perform your duty to Rome, you will be killed." Even Arthur appears stunned by this revelation.

"Death is the consequence for an exile who returns to Rome or one of her provinces. However, if you do as you are commanded, the Emperor has decided to forgive you of your crimes."

"My crimes?" I stammer. "I was an infant when we were sent away. What sins could I have possibly committed?" Bishop Germanius takes me in coldly, disgust apparent in every line of his face.

"Your sin was in being born. An abomination and a disgrace to God. The only way to cleanse your soul is to sacrifice yourself for our Lord's blessed nation."

My heart is fit to bursting with rage and defiance. I am no abomination, nor were any of us. I meet Bishop Germanius' gaze with open pride.

"I was formed in God's temple, the purity of my mother's womb. I owe Rome nothing and I owe _your_ God even less." Bishop Germanius quirks a bushy brow, hellfire in his eyes.

"Blasphemy." His condemnation does not strike me. I will not be broken by this man, nor any. I have not made it this far to be forced into slavery for crimes I have never been guilty of.

"You can marry the damned Saxon yourself," I bark. "For I never will." With my refusal ringing in my ears, I turn from the Bishop, Arthur, and the round table. Holding my head high, I stride to the door, power surging through my body. It is more intoxicating than the ale.

"So that we are clear, not only do you forfeit your life, Lady Seraphina, but the freedom of the knights as well." Bishop Germanius' pronouncement sucks every trace of air from the room. I'm suffocating. I spin around, searching for Arthur still frozen at the table with his eyes downcast.

"You cannot do that!" I protest. "This is my decision, not theirs. They have served their time."

"Child, we can do whatever pleases us," Bishop Germanius chuckles darkly. "Wed Cerdic's son and they are free. It is as simple as that."

SIMPLE. It is anything but. The ground crumbles beneath my feet. I'm flailing for anything to cling to as my power slips away. Bishop Germanius brushes past me. I flinch at his touch, but am unable to speak or move.

"I trust you will make the right choice, Lady Seraphina." The heavy doors slam shut behind him. In a daze, I retreat to the round table and collapse into one of the chairs, unable to stand any longer. I bury my face in my hands, desperately trying to conceal the tears of helplessness and fury. I can feel Arthur looming behind me mutely.

Galahad with his boyish smile, hot headed temper, and faithful friendship. Bors; a giant among men, always too loud and boisterous. Dagonet…Dag; a man who would take in a child not his own, protect the spawn of his enemy, and heal any wound, even ones of the heart and mind. Gawain; rude, sarcastic, and the man I laughed with in my darkest hours after losing Eoforhild. Tristan; ruthless and aloof, my teacher. And Lancelot; everything I did not want and everything I now have, the one that I hate and love. Love in a way that I will never comprehend. These are my knights in shining armor. They are a part of me.

"You chose them, didn't you?" I ask, surfacing from my arms. My tears dry as though they were never there at all.

"I have risked their lives time and time again. Nothing could make me risk their freedom." I nod my understanding. Arthur does what he must. I am learning to do the same. He sits next to me.

"I asked Lancelot to train me. He did not wish to," I confess.

"I know."

"He cares for you greatly."

"I know," Arthur repeats. He looks at me straightforward for the first time since I arrived. "But he cares for you as well." This time, I turn from him.

"We will not tell them, will we, Arthur?"

"No, we will not." Letting them know of our martyrdom would only bring more pain. They would not want us to do it, sacrifice ourselves for them, but we will, because Arthur and I do what we must. It is necessary, as Bishop Germanius so wisely coined it.

I stroke the smooth wood of the round table and marvel at my dark reflection staring back at me from its surface. Equality and justice. It only exists in our dreams.

"My brother swore that we would sit together at this table someday." Arthur rests his hand over mine. What would Alex say if he could see me now? Would he be proud? Or would he tell me to run and not look back?

"Your father would proud of you," Arthur sighs. It is my turn to say _I know_. When Eoforhild was taken, I learned the difference in value between the living and the dead. I have believed in revenge. I have believed in saving those already lost. Only to discover my purpose seated beside Artorius Castus at the round table.

"They will be free," I assert. I will give them life.

* * *

~Guinevere~

I'm doing just what I swore never to do again; leaving Arthur's side. This time I seek out Merlin alone, without Druisten's company. I know where to find them. It is a bond I will never be able to sever, no matter how cumbersome it becomes. I am a Woad. I feel our ancestry in the marrow of my bones and the resonance of our history in my heart. Arthur will just have to understand this as I have tried to accept the part of him that will always be Roman.

I stop, sensing a presence nearby. It is not my father's, far too cold and discomforting. I reach for my bow as Elva's airy laugh chills my blood. She seems to take shape from the fog, standing just a hand's width from my face and dressed only in dappled moonlight and blue paint. She sniffs the frosty air, disconcertingly close to me.

"Do I smell fear, Guinevere?" Elva steps back to inspect me with nearly transparent eyes, like shallow puddles left behind the storm. The familiar flavor of distaste is bitter on my tongue.

"I have news for Merlin," I state formally, not deigning to acknowledge her teasing.

"Pity you traveled so far. He is away."

"Where?" I snap. I did not leave Arthur, in a time when he needs me most, just to be tormented by this shrew. Elva raises a slender eyebrow at my brusque demeanor. Her thick braids twist like a nest of serpents, hissing and spitting like her eyes.

"I am not privy to his whereabouts." Elva dismisses my query passively. She continues speaking in our native tongue. A mischievous gleam in her eyes tells me she's done this as a challenge, and I'm loathe to admit her maneuver works. I struggle to return to my birth language that I have not spoken in so long, not even with Druisten. We prefer to retain some shape of normalcy within the walls of the fort and are already conspicuous enough without jabbering in a tongue none of the others can understand. It would only make them more suspicious of us. However all of the rationalizations in the world cannot lessen my shame at having to grasp for the meaning of Elva's words.

"However, I suspect he has gone to counsel with the other tribes. No one is pleased by the Saxons unexplainable withdrawal." I wince upon catching the hint in her tone. Elva is no fool. She's frightfully perceptive. She waits while I grapple internally for a solution. Merlin must know of the Roman's arrangement with the Saxons, but I will not have the chance to tell him. The knights leave in a day's time. Pushing aside my prejudices, I know what I must do.

"Will you carry my message to Merlin and tell not another soul?" I meet Elva's unreadable gaze, trying and failing to find anything there that will make me trust her.

"Who else would I tell, Guinevere?" she asks with a pinch of amusement. Of course she'll keep her silence. Elva isn't one for gossip. I'm sure she only speaks when it is absolutely necessary. Perhaps she is the best candidate to carry my missive to Merlin. Regardless whether I like her, she certainly knows how to hold her tongue.

"Do you swear?" I press, just to ease any misgivings of my own.

"On the gods." After another moment of doubt, I sigh in defeat. What other option is there?

"A day from tonight, Arthur and his knights will set out to escort Lady Seraphina to her betrothed, Cerdic's son." Elva remains unmoved, so I continue. "Rome seeks to form an alliance through marriage with the Saxons."

"It will never work," Elva says slowly, staring off into the distance, and never once losing her blank expression.

"Of course it will not, but we have no choice but to go along." Elva twirls the slim dagger in her hand thoughtfully, before meeting my eyes once more.

"We will take her now," she states imperiously. As though she has the right to make the decisions. I straighten proudly, towering over the daring woman. As Merlin's daughter, it is my place to decide what we will and will not do. Elva would do best to remember her place.

"We will do nothing of the sort. The Bishop will hunt her down and burn everything in his path in the process."

"And your Arthur has no power in the matter?" Elva sneers. I resist the urge to slash the smug smirk from her lips. She hates me, it is clear as day. She views me as a traitor. I recall the disdain she held for Seraphina's mother, a Woad turned Roman, and realize that Elva thinks I have done the same.

"Arthur has other loyalties that he must keep. He is not to be persecuted." My tone suggests finality, but Elva overlooks it obstinately.

"Merlin will not be pleased to hear of this. He wishes the girl return to us whole, not chopped to bits by a Saxon axe."

"That will not happen." Elva snorts in disbelief. The gesture mars her face in an unattractive manner.

"You place your faith in the Saxons hospitality, Guinevere? Surely your time with the Romans has not dulled your sensibility _that_ much." Before I can reign in my temper, I find myself stepping towards Elva with every intention to beat her into submission. Unfortunately, her reflexes are swift. She holds her knife pointed meaningful to my breast, eyes flashing sincerely.

"Perhaps you are Merlin's daughter, but should you dare to take one more step, I will not refrain from cutting your pretty face. Arthur may not find you quite so attractive then."

My hands itch to retrieve my bow and send an arrow deep into her frozen heart. However I know that it would bring no good, and more than likely we would both meet our death. Elva is a dangerous enemy. I have enough to deal with as it. Holding up my hands, I step back. Elva lowers knife.

"You may tell Merlin that Lady Seraphina will be protected." I spin on my heels, intent upon leaving, but Elva's flinty voice halts me momentarily.

"By who, a band of barbaric Sarmatian knights?"

"No," I murmur darkly, not bothering to look at her. "She will be protected by me."

Elva is lost in the fog that clings to my skin like the choice I have made. Arthur is my heart. Merlin is my father. I have asked myself time and time again who my loyalties belong to. Although it pains me beyond belief to break the promise I made to myself, to always be at Arthur's side, these past days have shown me that it cannot be. Arthur has his duties and I have mine. It will never lessen my love, nothing could do that, but Elva is right to judge me. The Woads are my kin. I will not forget that again.

As I make my way to the fort, dread looms over my head at the thought of facing Arthur. I must go with Seraphina for Merlin, for my father. Arthur will simply have to understand. Gods how it kills me.

* * *

~Galahad~

The round table has never been quite so desolate. I marvel at the multitude of barren seats between us, one for each man we've lost. Their spirits are here today, adding a mournful decay to the room. Dagonet insisted upon coming as well, along with the ghosts of our brother's, though he is unfit to be out of bed. He sits by Bors, his useless leg hidden beneath the table, but nothing conceals the grimace he wears so bravely. It was torture to watch our proud companion carried into the room. I did not wish to look, but I forced my eyes to bear witness to the atrocity. This is what the Saxons have done. I hate them more than the Woads on this day.

No one is willing to be the first to lift the veil of silence blanketing us. Gawain peers sullenly into his empty cup at my side. Lancelot watches Arthur with a contempt I've never seen him direct towards our commander before. And then there is Arthur himself, staring into the crackling flames in the hearth. Did he call this counsel so that we could mope as one? I have so many questions banging around in my skull. I was prepared to ask every one of them, but the moment I passed through the doors to see my brother's seated in solemn silence, they all slipped away.

We leave in the morning. I have polished my armor for the occasion until the metal was nearly worn through. I must look presentable for our funeral march, for that is all it is. Seraphina is not here. She has kept to her quarters, refusing to see any of us, though gods knows that didn't stop me from pounding on her door for hours on end. I'm not sure what I planned on saying to her. _Have no fear, my friend, perhaps your marriage to a bloody Saxon savage won't be half bad._ Ha, it's laughable.

Gawain ribs me hard with his elbow and I realize that I really have begun to laugh. The cold sound of it is a mockery to our somber gathering.

"Don't see what's so funny," Bors grumbles from across the table. They're all watching me now as though I've sprouted another set of arms. It only makes me laugh harder until tears of mirth drip down my face.

"Look at us!" I cry, my voice breeching insanity. I wave my arms around to encompass all of us. "What a sorry bunch of knights we've become." No one seems to see the humor. Tristan's scowl deepens; I didn't think it possible. I turn to Arthur, sobering instantly.

"We won't do it, will we? The Bishop doesn't stand a chance against the lot of us." I can feel my excitement rising. Of course we won't take Sera to those bastards. I should have realized sooner that Arthur would never be a part of something such as this. He's led us to Hades and back just to keep Sera safe. How could I ever have thought, even for a moment, that he'd escort her to the grave now?

"The Bishop represents Rome, Galahad. Perhaps we can conquer one man, but not an entire nation." Dagonet is the first to break the uncomfortable quiet that greeted my epiphany. His voice is serene and tired as he tries to explain what I do not wish to hear.

"Damn Rome!" I roar. "We have Arthur." I lift my goblet into the air, standing so suddenly that my chair tips backwards to the ground. I beseech Arthur with my eyes, pleading for him to leap up and tell us it was all a scam. I wait for him to make a speech about equality and justice. Instead, he focuses intently on his clasped hands.

"We will follow the Bishop's orders." My arm freezes, still outstretched. Every muscle in my body locks and my jaw drops. Who is this man? Arthur sinks into himself under my scrutiny.

"Like hell we will!" My raised goblet clatters to the table. Red wine stains the round table. "How can you let them do this, Arthur!" Everyone is looking anywhere but at each other, especially me. Only Lancelot pins Arthur with the same furious bewilderment as me.

"We have no choice, Galahad," Arthur speaks softly, trying to placate my anger. I will not be sated.

"We can save her!" I scream, my voice seeping into every corner of the room. Arthur rises, using the table to support himself, and meets my accusing eyes with his own, penetrating and unshakeable.

"I am saving you," he declares. "All of you!" Arthur turns to each of us.

"What if we do not wish to be saved?" Lancelot's dark voice fills the room. It is the first time he has spoken more than two words to Arthur. Even I am gagged by his interjection. His fathomless eyes are hard as flint as they beat into our commander. Tension knots in my stomach as the two men face one another.

"It is what you to deserve," Arthur states.

"What we deserve?" Lancelot sneers. "How does leading Lady Seraphina to her death give us what we deserve?"

"She will not die. This is an alliance, not a sacrifice." We are all aware that Arthur has avoided Lancelot's question. His words make no sense, but I am too inflamed to care.

"You cannot believe in this truce, Arthur," I spit. "They are hungry for land and power, not women or titles." Bors grunts his agreement. Gawain shifts uncomfortably in his seat. It is what they are all thinking.

"What happened to our commander, the man who believed in rescuing those in need?" Lancelot asks, with more than a pinch of sarcasm. "Tell me, Arthur, where is your bleeding heart now?"

"It was you who taught her to fend for herself," Arthur shouts, losing his temper at last. Sparks fly between the two of them. "You, Lancelot, who has told me from the very beginning that I could not save everyone."

"Don't start listening to me now, damn it!" Lancelot thunders.

"I am listening to my orders," Arthur retorts coldly.

"Orders that will send a lone child into the hands of the Saxons!" I intercede. Arthur and Lancelot both open their mouths to speak, but their words are cut off quickly.

"She will not be alone." Guinevere appears from behind me. It is obvious she's been present for much of our warring. She glides towards Arthur, whose expression has melted from fury to confusion in the blink of an eye.

"What do you mean by that?" Gawain asks hesitantly. Guinevere's eyes never leave Arthur's. She is pale, but brimming over with determination.

"I shall go with Lady Seraphina." Her revelation sends me to my seat once more. Only when I thud gracelessly to the floor do I remember that my chair tipped over. In any other situation, this scene would have been hilarious. I don't even bother to pick myself off of the floor.

"You shall do no such thing," Arthur growls. I can only see their feet from underneath the table, but I can imagine their faces well enough.

"I have already made up my mind on the matter, Lord Artorius," Guinevere says acridly.

"I will not have it!" Suddenly this counsel has moved to a lover's dispute. I'd rather we were yelling at one another again. What could Guinevere possibly be thinking? She hardly knows Sera.

"I am not asking you to approve, for last I checked, I was still allowed my own free will."

"Guinevere-"

"Nothing you say will alter my course." Gawain tugs at my sleeve, nodding to the doors. I take in his meaning quickly. The other knights have already begun to sneak away, Bors carrying Dagonet from the room swiftly. I follow Gawain without complaint. Though there are a million things I still wish to say to Arthur, and none of them pleasant, I am relieved to be free of his and Guinevere's brewing apocalypse.

"World's gone bloody mad," Gawain mumbles after the doors slam behind us. They don't do much to muffle the rising pitch of Guinevere and Arthur's voices. I couldn't agree with Gawain more, but I'm in no mood to. My throat stings from yelling. I can't remember a time when I rebelled against Arthur in such a manner.

As we scurry down the dark corridor, fleeing from the battle still ensuing in the conference room, I'm bogged down with guilt. How can I persecute Arthur for doing nothing, when I should be convicted of the same crime? Guinevere, who has known Sera for a handful of days, will follow her to the Saxons. Gods know I am clueless as to why, but it matters not.

I am sick and disgusted with myself all the same. For it is not me pledging to go with her. I, her friend, yell and rant about Arthur's short comings, but I am the coward. I am the one who will not forfeit my freedom. They keep telling me I deserve it. But I do not feel that way today.

* * *

~Lancelot~

I didn't ask for her name. I did not even show her the courtesy of taking her to my bed. I took her against stable wall, where any passerby could have spotted us. Her reputation, if she has any left, would have been ruined. I almost wished someone to find us, to hear her shrill cries of fear or excitement; I did not bother to note the difference. My frustration was relieved shortly and I left the nameless woman with not a word, but two coins that spoke for themselves.

I remember when Sera scoffed at my careless way where women are concerned. She had ideals of what we are supposed to be; chivalrous and brave. I'm sure her expectations have changed since that day, so long ago in my memory. Every ounce of frustration returns, not to be wiped clear by a nameless woman. It was two coins wasted. A month of celibacy broken and I'm no more satisfied than before. It goes deeper than desire or any physical need. I feel the ghost of Sera's embrace as it smothers me.

Before my mind catches up to my feet, I'm standing at her door, unsure as to what magic has brought me here and yet unable to retreat. What do I want from her, a little girl? I'd like to see if she's still hopeful now. The door is unbolted, as though she were expecting me. I take it as a good omen, an invitation to be here where I don't belong. Of course she didn't know I would come. I wasn't conscious of the decision myself until this instance, frozen in the threshold of her room.

She's sleeping: not unnatural at this hour, I suppose, for people not plagued with uncertainties, like us. How can she close her eyes when the world is sneaking up on her? I close the door behind me in an attempt to keep everything at bay for a bit longer. She's fallen onto the center of the bed, her knees curled into her chest, and a dress tangled about her. Poor little thing, she is. I watch, feeling like a predator, as she slumbers obliviously. Her cheek leaves a pretty imprint in the linen when she shifts her head. Curtains of knotted hair frame her serene face. A prick of jealousy finds its way beneath my skin at her peace, fleeting as it is. I'm sure her future husband will not appreciate this view if he's ever lucky enough to catch a glimpse of it.

I kneel down beside her, holding my face so close to hers that her steady breath washes over me until the heat is unbearable. Perfectly innocent tonight. Her hand uncurls from around a fistful of her dress and swats absently at something in her dreams. I catch her wrist, my touch light so as not to wake her, and bring her delicate hand to my lips. It was easier not to care. I long for those days, when she was an inconvenient mission of Arthur's, rather than one of my own. Funny how our roles have switched. Anger surges at the near memory of our final counsel at the round table. That man was not my Arthur. Perhaps I am no longer his Lancelot.

"Sera," I call gently. Although I am loath to ruin her moment of sanctuary, time is running short, and I have made up my mind once and for all.

"Come Sera, you must wake." I shake her slightly. Her eyelids flutter as she struggles to surface. She reaches for a handful of my tunic, using me as a guide to bring her from the depths of sleep.

"Lancelot," she sighs. Day breaks across her face. I watch in subdued horror as the calm is washed away by a labyrinth of dark emotions. A wistful sob catches in her throat as she remembers everything all over again. I know this feeling. Every morning I am forced to relive my past. It happens quickly, but seems to take much longer. Sera's expression finally decides upon a placid puzzlement as she lets her hand fall away from me.

"Lancelot?" she repeats, this time in a question.

"Get your cloak," I order in a lowered voice. Sera parts her lips to complain, but changes her mind. I wait by the door as she gathers the cloak discarded at the foot of the bed. Her eyes dart to me every few seconds, full of unconcealed curiosity and a bit of trepidation. Why do I frighten her now?

I take her arm firmly and pull her out into the corridor. Our footsteps echo too loudly against the stone floor. The whole fort will hear us and know of my intent. Sera trips along behind me, stumbling over the hem of her skirts, as I increase our pace. Soon she is fighting for breath as she is forced to jog to keep up with my longer stride. I drag her out into the courtyard, careful to stick to the shadows and duck out of sight when a stray soldier wanders past.

"Lancelot, where are we-?" I silence her with a single glance as we duck across a dirt street. Unceremoniously, I shove Sera into the dark stables. She lands in an aggravated heap in a pile of damp hay. A few horses poke their heads from their stalls at our intrusion, but other than them, we are utterly alone. In a frenzy, I begin to collect everything she'll need. Mithras knickers testily as I toss a saddle across his back. Luckily, there is already a pile of fully supplied packs stacked in the corner, waiting to be claimed for our planned departure come morning. I tie the pack to Mithras' saddle, ignoring the palomino's protests. For a moment, Sera watches me with a furrow of consternation marring her smooth brow.

"Oh!" she cries as comprehension dawns. Sera leaps to her feet with more grace than I've ever seen her display. She steps between me and her horse, frowning mutinously.

"Stop this right now," she commands. I'd laugh at her indignant expression; chin jutting forward defiantly, and the threatening position of her hands on her hips. It's how Vanora stands when Bors is about to get an ear full. I ignore her demands and step around her formidable form. She's so small, yet she thinks she can take on the universe.

"Lancelot!" Sera hisses, grasping for my hands in an attempt to cease my preparations. I continue to overlook her until she leaps before me once more and catches my face in her hands. She pulls herself up to take my lips, and apparently my senses. I drop the bridle in my hands to place them against the small of her back. She's so, so small. I return her kiss with a desperation that surprises me. Gods, how I've longed for her.

Sera withdraws, breathless and flushed. She rests her head against my chest, purposefully hiding her face. I don't want to let her go. She's far too prone to finding trouble, but I know it's the only way.

"Ride hard to the woods. The Woads will keep you hidden." I never thought I'd come to the day when I'd have to put my faith in the Woads. They mean her no harm. I can only hope they'll protect her as well. To my surprise, Sera pushes me back a step. She shakes her head sadly, eyes sparkling with tears she'll doesn't want me to see.

"I cannot go," she whispers, staring intently at the ground and Dagonet's boots, which she still wears.

"Cannot go?" I repeat in disbelief. When she doesn't speak my anger begins to flare. I grasp her face roughly and pull her eyes to mine. "What do you mean you cannot go? If it is fear that keeps you here, then know that the Saxons are worse than anything you may bump into in the woods." Sera's eyes flash at the blow to her pride.

"I am not frightened of the dark, Sir, and I am well acquainted with Saxons in case you have forgotten." She jerks away from me and begins to unsaddle Mithras. I twine my arm around her waist and drag her away from the horse.

"You will go," I state firmly. Sera squirms in my hold. She squeals as I toss her over the saddle, so that she hangs upside down over the horses back. Mithras snorts in irritation as she continues to kick at me, landing a solid blow the my face that sends me back a step. My jaw will bruise in the morning. Isn't the damsel supposed to be grateful when she's rescued?

"Put me down this instance!" Sera exclaims. She lets out an incomprehensible sound of rage as I twist her upright in the saddle. Mithras paws the ground and clamps down on my sleeve with strong teeth.

"Damned beast," I grunt, not sure whether my words are directed at the animal or the girl. I should have carried her here asleep and tied her to the saddle while she was unconscious. Sometimes I forget how difficult she can be. I'm stunned by the force of her fist as it collides with my face. There's a sickening crunch of cartilage before blood begins to pour from my nose. Sera takes the opportunity to flip clumsily over the horse. Her skirts billow into a pile around her waist as she lands sprawled, and somewhat dazed, on the other side of Mithras.

She regains her wits before me and begins scuttling to the stable doors, half crawling and half running. I catch her easily and begin to drag her back to the horse by the collar of her dress. She kicks her bare legs against the cobblestone floor wildly.

"I won't go!" she screeches. "You bloody fool, release me or I shall scream to high heaven."

"Be my guest," I grunt through clenched teeth. "I've longed to hear you scream anyways."

"LANCELOT!"

"That's a good girl," I snort sarcastically. I lift her from the floor and make a second attempt to place her on the horse. Morning is approaching ever closer. I don't know why she's refusing to leave and I don't care. If no one else will do anything, then I will.

Sera finally gives in. I feel her go limp in my arms, practically lifeless. My body tenses, expecting another attack. Slightly amused, I realize that I've taught her well. A bit too well perhaps. However, Sera does not move.

"Please," she mumbles. "I must marry him, Lancelot." Her surrender sickens me. I shove her away, disgusted by her words. She's a wreck, with hay in her hair and blood streaming down her scraped knees and staining her torn skirts. A part of me is overcome with guilt at being the cause of her pain, and the other rejoices in it. Why isn't she fighting!

"You wish to become their royal whore?" I snap bitterly. Sera winces at my brusque tone.

"It is necessary." I can't bear her resignation. It feeds the dry kindling of my frustration.

"Do you think that you can save Briton by warming his bed? Or perhaps you hope to find your Saxon bastard." Her palm stings against my cheek. I know I've gone too far, but my temper is beyond control.

"Eoforhild," she hisses lowly. "Do not dare speak of her."

"Does it still hurt to know how you failed her?" I taunt. "How you failed your family?"

"Stop," Sera cries weakly. "Please, do not-"

"Poor Princessa, naïve enough to think she can save anyone. Care to know what they will do to you?" I corner her into the wall, my lips hovering at her ear. "Women are nothing to the Saxons. You'll be forced to your husband's bed, unable to fight when he strips away your _precious_ virtue." I kiss her soft neck. "Then perhaps they shall pass you through their ranks until you're no longer of any use. You will bear his sons and watch as they are raised into heartless killers." Sera's tears are warm on my skin as they spill over against her will.

"Nothing you say," she stammers, "will make me run from this." She meets my glare with the stubbornness I've grown so familiar with. Such a young fool, doomed by her desire to make a difference. I have been fighting for fifteen years. I know that there is no end to the violence. We will never win. Why can't she understand this? It is the hope she wears like a beacon of light to all lost souls. I'm drawn to it and repulsed as well. Either way, it is one opponent I am unable to defeat.

"Sera." I choke on her name, terrified of the truth that is needling its way into my mind. "I do not want you to go." She closes her eyes, shutting me out. I release her, knowing full well that I've lost.

"I am sorry," she says mournfully. I allow the ice to fill in the cracks of my raw emotion. It is thinner than before, but sturdy enough. I reach into my tunic and retrieve Sera's cross. My neck feels too light without it. I fold her hand over the wooden trinket.

"You shall need it more than me, Lady Seraphina."

I do not stay, nor look back, to see if she keeps her cross. I have borne it long enough.

* * *

**PiscesWeb25: **I'm surprised you didn't see it coming! I guess it just seemed obvious to me in the previous chapters because I knew it was going to happen, haha. Hm, only time will tell whether or not she weds Cynric.

**rebeccaS: **Don't get dizzy!! Hoepfully this appeases you a bit. I just can't see Lancelot as the type to straight out tell her how he feels. This chapter is basically their way of admiting they care for one another, possibly even love. It's a read between the lines kind of a thing, I guess.

**Kathryn72293: **I literally recieved your review just as I was about to post this. Haha, Galahad is sweeter, but I'm a sucker for the bad guys. Lancelot gets better...eventually...kind of sort of.

**A/N: **Just a few more chapters, I think [but don't hold me to it], until this story is finished. However, there will be a much needed sequel! R&R&enjoy. Oh, and if you've read any really good KA fanfics, send me the link :D


	19. Chapter 19

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DISCLAIMER: I own nothing you recognize, and most of what you do not.

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"_Dost thou love life?_

_Then do not squander time,_

_for that is the stuff life is made of."_

_-Benjamin Franklin_

~Arthur~

Leaning far over the fortress wall, I am the first to see morning approach, sneaking up on me with rosy innocence. I did not catch a wink of sleep this past night, yet it feels as though I'm being awoken from an unimaginable dream. The creeping sun illuminates my doubts, spread across this land as far as the eye can see. Already the courtyard below is a fluster of activity. Roman soldiers, hand chosen by Bishop Germanius to accompany us to Wessex, prepare for our journey with single minded efficiency. To them, this is another duty to be preformed. They do not realize, or do not care, that they are accomplices to murder.

Little Seraphina, her father's daughter after all. She once told me that my responsibility to her was long finished. Though the others accuse me silently, with the exception of Galahad who was anything but soft-spoken, I know that this is the decision I would make time and time again. It does not lessen the guilt.

Guinevere's authoritative voice carries through the muted morning. We have reconciled as well as can be expected. Regardless as to whether I like it or not, I'm certainly not fool enough to try to restrain her. Guinevere will do as she sees fit. I curse my heart for falling for such an unruly woman. Of course I couldn't have chosen a gentle natured beauty! Instead I'm saddled with a savage Woad, the kin of my enemy. One year stretches between us now. All our uncertainties of the future and I never doubted that we would be together. One year…This is how it must feel for her when I leave; every nerve in my body frazzled, my chest burning, and my lungs seeming to collapse.

I can't bring myself to steal a glance at her, but my mind paints her clearly. Guinevere will be flitting through the soldiers, snapping orders at the disgruntled men, and threatening anyone who dares to step on her toes. Indeed, that is the love of my life.

I keep my eyes on the horizon, praying wordlessly. On this day, God will just have to decipher my emotions. I can't think of any way to describe them to him. Our Father, who art in Heaven, give my men freedom, protect my Guinevere, and forgive me for what I am to do. Time is slipping through my fingers like the night. May I go down in history as the hero of this tale, glorified by bards, and condemned by myself.

What would my own father think of me now? My line of sight shifts to the burial ground resting just outside the fortress wall, near the forest. His grave is unmarked by a sword, as Excalibur is hanging like a dark omen from my hip. My Father, who art dead and gone, do not look upon me in disgrace. I have tried.

A shadow crosses through the fog. At first I think it is a figment of my tired eyes. Who would be going to the cemetery so early? My knights are congregated in the tavern, sharing a bottle of wine as they mourn together, and no others in this fort care to visit a plot of deceased Sarmatians. I lean further over the battlements, squinting into the inadequate light, and try to determine the identity of the ghostly person. They move swiftly towards the cemetery. A flash of white whips behind them. If I were a superstitious man, I would say they were a spirit. Perhaps an angel.

"She has gone every morning since we arrived." Lancelot's resonating voice startles me. I turn to see my second-in-command hovering nearby with his arms crossed easily over his chest, armor glimmering, and a razor straight jaw clenched tightly. His dark eyes are foreboding as he follows the path of the mysterious creature.

"She?" I ask cautiously. Lately, we have not been able to carry a conversation that did not turn into an argument. I am in no mood for sparring this morning. Lancelot appears to feel the same.

"Lady Seraphina," he states duly, joining me against the wall. I notice the relic of a bruise painting his cheek, but decide not to make a mention of it. I also notice the bitter twinge in his voice when he speaks her name.

"And how do you know of her ventures?" Lancelot shrugs, still steadfastly focusing on Seraphina.

"You once asked me to watch over her. I have not stopped."

"Because of me or your own interest?"

"Perhaps both and perhaps neither," he answers vaguely. Seraphina is lost beneath the fog now, yet Lancelot's vigil remains true. What is it between them? Preoccupied as I have been, certain things have not gone unnoticed; the fleeting glances between them, flashes of desire, and something much more worthy of concern.

"You care for her," I wonder out loud. Never did I expect to see the day when Lancelot truly cared for a woman.

"It matters not," he says dismissively. He breaks his intent watch to face me. "I will follow the orders I have been given." His calm acceptance nearly breaks me. What has happened to my rebellious knight? It is as though the fire that once drove him has been extinguished, stamped out by Roman boots. Pushing aside my pride, I do what I should have done long before now.

"Lancelot, my friend." My words begin to trickle hesitantly. "I have wronged you. I-"

"Do not."

"I am trying to-" Lancelot clasps my arm in a familiar gesture of brotherhood. His eyes soften for a brief moment and sincerity shines through.

"It is the past, Arthur. We have enough of the future to fret over. Save your apologies for a worthier cause, do not waste them on men who will always be loyal." The echo of a smile reaches my lips. In this moment, I know I have done right.

"I give my apologies to men who deserve them." Lancelot nods before facing outwards again. Silence perforates the air. Even the bustle in the courtyard below has settled. Again, time bears down on me.

"Well, we're ready when you are," Bors huffs grimly, breeching the top of the fortress staircase, his large face ruddy from exertion and wine. I glance one last time to where Seraphina is spending her last few moments of freedom. Before the request is past my lips, Lancelot is striding past Bors.

"I shall fetch her," he calls over his shoulder, his voice stone cold.

"Poor lass," Bors mumbles, trailing after Lancelot.

I watch my friend begin the trek to the cemetery with brisk, purposeful steps, before submerging into reality once more. Bishop Germanius is waiting for me by the caravan, glowing with pride. There is one prayer I'm able to articulate after all. Keep me from killing this insufferable man. I'm not sure God has enough power to answer this request.

* * *

~Seraphina~

I wring out the bloodied cloth into a little clay bowl. The droplets ripple across the surface of the water, distorting my reflection into a dance of mismatched pieces; the corner of a grey eye, half of a frown, a wrinkled brow. I dab my knees with the cloth carefully, dislodging lose pebbles from the inflamed, torn skin that has been shredded by stable cobblestones. Idly, I wonder how many of my scars have been made by Lancelot. Before I can hate him for them, I remember how many of them he's tried to prevent as well. It is the damage he's done to my heart that stings the most. If we had been any other two people…

Would I have married him rather than a Saxon prince? Would I even have wanted to?

"Oh, you fool!" I cry, tossing the wet rag against the wall. It slaps the cold stone with a muted thud. With a swipe of my hand, the bowl brimming with bloody water shatters to the floor. The hem of my dress is drenched and it suddenly seems like the most horrific thing in the world. I stare at the mess I've made, my chest heaves with the frantic thumping of my heart.

"Oh," I sigh, falling to my sore knees. My hands tremble as I sweep the shards of clay into a pile. If only I could make him understand! The incredulity in Lancelot's eyes, fading into dire disappointment, sears like a brand into my breast. _I do not want you to go_, he said. Those words hang over me. They tease mercilessly. Why did he have to go and say that? Look at me in that desperate way?

I press my fingertips to my lips. They still burn from the hopelessness of our kiss. I realize that it will probably be our last. A jagged edge of the broken bowl bites the soft pad of my thumb. I stick the sliced finger into my mouth, pressing it against my tongue before the bleeding can begin. A steady stream of curses I've picked up from my brother and the knights alike spew forth. They drown out the slight creak of my door as it's opened.

At the sound of a clucking tongue, I tumble backwards to stare wide eyed at the intruder standing confidently in the doorway. She's a sturdy creature, dressed immaculately in a fine robe of deep, velvet red. Her pale hair, streaked with trails of silver, is knotted so tightly that the skin of her forehead is pulled taut and her slender eyebrows rise in an expression of contempt. Her eyes bulge unattractively from their sockets. The glow of torchlight in the corridor ebbs across her sharp profile, enunciating a prominent jaw and the barely perceptible wrinkles webbing across her face. I'm not sure this woman has cracked so much as a single smile in her entire life. Her narrow lips look frozen into a dagger straight line. She purses them as she soaks me in disdainfully. I realize that I'm a mess; strewn over the floor with my bare legs stretched inappropriately in front of me. I'm acutely aware of the bits of hay poking haphazardly from my hair in the presence of this sanitized woman.

"I…My apologies, but…Who are you?" Without answering, the woman steps into the room, waving a jeweled hand behind her. Two young lads appear, carrying a heavy tub between them, already filled to the brim. Water sloshes everywhere, ruining the threadbare rug in front of the hearth, as the woman directs them.

"Careful," she barks, as another wave spills over. I watch in a daze as the boys, clearly intimidated and rightly so, set the tub down. They're dismissed with another wave of her hand. I cast longing glances at their retreating forms, wishing that I could go with them. This woman's iron gaze makes me highly uncomfortable.

She dumps a bundle of neatly folded fabric at the foot of my unmade bed. The woman bustles busily; stoking the fire, fiddling through the leather satchel she carried in with a bundle of clothing. I'm still paralyzed on the floor. She hasn't answered my question and I nearly don't expect her to, when suddenly she turns to face me once more.

"You may call me Lady Despoena. The Bishop has requested that I personally make you presentable." Her narrowed eyes scan me disapprovingly. "Been having a roll in the hay with one of your knights perhaps?" she chides icily. Self-consciously, I rake my fingers through my hair, trying to pick out the fodder. This woman makes me feel as though I'm the very mud of the earth.

"I can bathe myself." I stammer slightly while rising to my feet, using the wall to support myself. Lady Despoena either doesn't register my subtle hint or decides to overlook it.

"Remove your clothes," she orders. Her words are clipped and short. I wrap my arms around my waist defiantly. Only Eoforhild has seen the marks of my body. I will not show them to this shrew. Before I can muster a protest, however, Lady Despoena is stepping towards me purposefully.

"Do not touch me!" Even as the indignant cry passes my lips, she's tugging at my dress with claw-like hands. Fabric tears, giving way to her forceful disrobing. A blast of chilly air strikes my bare skin. Horrified, I realize that in a few short moments, she's torn away the thin barrier shielding me from sight. Lady Despoena's cheeks sink inwards as she releases a low whistle. Her pitiless eyes probe me without mercy.

I have never felt more violated. This is a part of me that I was not prepared to share. My wounds, many of them fresh, are laid out for her evaluation. Her judgment is condemning. I'd like to tell her that it is not my fault. These mutilations are not who I really am, but my tongue is heavy and my eyes water from the smoke drifting from the newly built fire. I drape my hair over my shoulders and hold my arms firmly around my body. It is my life she sneers at with still pursed lips. It's as though she is witnessing the very essence of my twisted soul. Every bruise is a sin.

I flinch as her surprisingly strong hand encircles my arm. She pulls me to the tub, ignoring my struggles. Unceremoniously, she shoves me forward. My mouth opens wide to scream, but the sound is stifled by the water filling my lungs. My face slides against the smooth bottom of the tub as my legs flail wildly over the edge. Lady Despoena twists me into a decent position, turning me by the ankle. I splutter up the water clogging my chest and wipe at my burning eyes viciously. Unbidden tears leak down my cheeks. It has all become too much. Lancelot's harsh truths echo in my mind.

_You'll be forced to your husband's bed, unable to fight when he strips away your precious virtue._

The oppressive dread of my situation causes panic to rise. I grip the sides of the tub as all the blood drains from my body. What have I done? This is to be my life from now on, tossed about without a care. I am nothing more than a broken vessel. Lady Despoena begins to scrape a brush against my aching flesh. The bristles rip my skin and I'm shocked no blood is drawn. She touches me everywhere. I snake away from her, only to find there is no escape. She knocks aside the poor barrier I've created with my arms.

"Don't see the point," Lady Despoena mumbles mutinously under her breath. "You'll be filthy again by the time you reach Wessex."

"Wessex?" I squeak. Her hands pause for a blissful instant as she raises an incredulous eyebrow at my query.

"The Saxon kingdom, of course." Of course, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world, and I suppose it may be. In my mind, the Saxon territory has gone by no other name than Hell. Wessex…I roll the word through my mouth. It is uncomfortable, just like the handful of phrases Eoforhild attempted to teach me. I wish I had paid more attention to her little lessons now.

I hiss as Lady Despoena's rough brush scrapes over my skinned knees. I submit to her administrations, knowing my efforts to break free are futile. I may as well practice this 'being nothing' thing now. Silent tears continue to stream down my cheeks however. I'm terribly tired of crying.

Lady Despoena tips a pitcher of chilling water over my head. My teeth begin to chatter from the cold. She scrubs my hair, tugging the locks ruthlessly until I feel as though I'll go bald. I close my eyes and focus on breathing. The air circulates through my lungs, fueling my body. By the time Lady Despoena is finished with her task, I've achieved some semblance of calm. I push her away and stand on my own. Rivulets of crystalline water trickle down my flushed skin and pools around my feet. Lady Despoena dries me quickly. The warmth of the fire does not reach me. I stare blankly at the wall ahead, counting the precisely cut stones, and force aside the indignity of this ordeal. I was not ready to be seen…

"Lady Despoena." Guinevere's curt address sharpens my drifting attention. The younger woman steps into the room, her face an unreadable mask. Lady Despoena does not grace her with a return acknowledgement. I cast a silent plea of help to Guinevere. She seems to hear me. Taking a blanket from my bed, she tosses it around my shoulders swiftly without so much as glancing at my exposed form. Her dark eyes remain centered on Lady Despoena.

"I shall relieve you of your duties," Guinevere states. The older woman is unmoved. Her brow furrows in distaste.

"My orders from the Bishop were to prepare Lady Seraphina. I intend to do so."

"You have done enough." I'm caught between the two strong-willed women as they glare daggers at one another. The conflict between them appears to run deeper than this situation calls for. They do not bother to conceal their loathing for one another. At the sound of footsteps, Lady Despoena and I glance up to see Tristan leaning against the open doorframe, twirling his knife suggestively between nimble fingers. I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders as a blush paints my face. If all of them would just go away!

Upon seeing Tristan, Lady Despoena pales slightly. Some of her resolve falters.

"I assure you that I can handle things from here," Guinevere continues smoothly. "I am sure the Bishop would serve more from your company than Lady Seraphina." Tristan grins crookedly, but I'm lost on the joke. Lady Despoena's cheeks flame angrily. She straightens like a venomous snake, coiled and waiting to strike. However, with Guinevere and Tristan clearly opposing her, she sees reason.

"As you wish," Lady Despoena grits out between clenched teeth. Tristan gives her little room to pass by him, so that she must press uncomfortably close to the terrifying scout. He doesn't say a word, but the scowl on his jagged face speaks volumes. I allow myself a sigh of relief as Lady Despoena's footsteps fade away. Guinevere and Tristan exchange glances before he too slips away, closing the door firmly behind him.

Guinevere's defensive pose relaxes. She picks up a wooden comb from where Lady Despoena set it with her other things. With gentle hands, she places me at the foot of the bed and begins to untangle my damp mop of hair.

"Thank-you," I murmur after a bit, regaining my senses.

"Think nothing of it. I seek out any chance to spite that bitter whore. Ha, Bishop's mistress or no, she is the farthest thing from holy."

"Mistress?" I gasp, thrown by her words. Guinevere chuckles melodically. She smoothes back my hair in a motherly gesture that makes my gut clench.

"She came from Rome with him. Alas, she struts about the fort like some great lady, but every body's dirty laundry is aired around here."

"But…but that is not allowed! He is a man of God!"

"And men of God create their own laws," Guinevere hisses darkly. She picks up the bundle of folded fabric Lady Despoena brought with her. She shakes it out and the shimmering cloth unfurls into a stunning dress. I'm speechless. It certainly is not the most ornate garment, with only simple embroidery along the bodice, but the material seems to have been spun from clouds. It is the most honest shade of white I have ever seen. It is the very picture of elegance. Guinevere sneers as she tosses the dress into my arms. My fingers rejoice at the softness of the fabric.

"Of course it would be white," Guinevere chortles harshly. I quirk an eyebrow at her to convey my confusion.

The Bishop will have you seem more valuable of a prize." She's retreating to the door.

"Wait!" I call. "I do not understand. How will a white dress make me more valuable?" Guinevere's gaze is sympathetic. I nearly can't bear it.

"White for purity, Lady Seraphina. You'll be a virginal vision and every man desires an unadulterated bride." Suddenly, the dress burns my fingertips. Guinevere dips her head in a quiet farewell More than likely she's headed to help prepare for our journey. Once she is gone, I sink back to the bed, holding the accursed dress at arms length.

I'm tempted to slip on my old gown, but it would prove nothing. I've chosen this path. For Galahad, Lancelot, and the other knights. I am not going to break my word now. The gown clings to my monstrous skin, concealing my pains once more. The first faint rays of morning sun slice across the room. My time is short and I have yet to make my last pilgrimage to the cemetery. I find peace there.

On my way out, a devious thought enters my mind. Quickly, I turn back and scoop up the crucifix hanging over the hearth. It glows red from the flickering flames and warms my chest as it hangs perfectly over the gown's neckline. It is an emblem for everyone to see. If I am to be pure, then I may as well go all out.

* * *

~Lancelot~

My palms are sweating. I realize this as I linger on the boundary of the burial ground. This is not a place I venture to often. I am not like the other men who dwell in the past. Perhaps it is out of fear that I distance myself. The whispers of the dead reach me on the breeze. They wonder why I deserved to live while they're buried deep in the earth. So many of them gone. Cemeteries are where everyone must face their demons. However, mine looks like an angel this morning.

Seraphina is unaware of my presence. She is confronting the sunrise; her lips puckered into a defiant scowl. If only she had gone! There would be no need to battle the sun. If I were a greater man, I would force it below the horizon once more by the point of my sword. Away you beast of light! Do not pierce us with our burdens and your rays of light. The sun is a God. I am just a man. I have not felt so helpless in a long time. What other options do I have? I am here to fetch Seraphina. I have tried to free her, but she refused the offer.

"Then she has asked for this fate," I murmur, needing to hear the excuse out loud. Clenching my hands into fists, I armor myself before stepping over the divide of life and death, into the cemetery. Seraphina is no longer my concern. She has chosen her destiny. Who am I to stand in her way?

I trudge over the attended graves, keeping tally of all the ones I helped dig; Gareth, Bedivere, Kay, Lamorak, Geraint. Seraphina rests beside Percivale's final home. She leans upon his sword, recently polished by Galahad no doubt, for support.

"Percivale," I state, waving a hand at the mound of earth. Seraphina turns slowly, keeping her eyes downcast. She will not look at me and a twinge of guilt tightens in my chest. It was not my intention to hurt her last night. Arthur is much better at rescue missions. Mine always turn into a flop.

"Brought down by infection from a Woad arrow little over two years ago. He _was_ the youngest." Seraphina merely nods. She peaks up at me through dark lashes timidly. The wind stirs her damp hair and her skin, flushed and clean, glows in the faint light. My eyes wander to the elegant dip of her neckline and the gleaming crucifix settled peacefully in the hollow of her collarbone.

"You look quite holy this morning, my lady." She knows very well that I'm trying to needle a response out of her. In all honesty, she's beautiful without all of the dirt. Her gown drapes her slender form nicely. I fold my hands behind my back, reminding myself that she is soon to be a married woman…reminding myself that she is not, and never will be, mine.

"They are ready to leave," she sighs in resignation, not deigning to reply to any of my comments. The toe of her heavy boot pokes out from the long hem of her dress to kick at the dirt of Percivale's grave in a nervous fashion.

"It is peaceful here, is it not?" Seraphina quirks her head to the side, braving eye contact now. There is a storm radiating from her grey orbs. For all of her calm pretense, I am not fooled. Hopefully, my charade has more substance. Seraphina has never been able to disguise her emotions. It is part of what I find so endearing.

"I find cemeteries rather oppressive," I reply staunchly. It's too hard to push aside my personal feelings. _She's not yours, Lancelot. Stop being such a milksop._ Neither my mind, nor my body, wish to cooperate.

"Ah, but they're so quiet," Seraphina says wistfully.

"Perhaps because everyone is dead."

"I like them better that way! No voices telling you what to do and no bishops blackmailing you into…Oh!" She clasps her hands over her mouth and spins away from me. Her shoulders rise and fall as she strives to regain control of her heavy breathing. A stifled cry drifts back to me.

"Please, don't hate me," she sobs. Her words strike me hard. Hate her? More than anything I wish I could! It would make performing my duties so much easier. I find myself moving out of some new found instinct. My arms fold around her trembling frame. I lock my hands over her waist.

"The bishop cannot make you do this," I say. My jaw clenches as she slumps against me. Gods, this is torture. I do no know how to comfort a woman. It is not in my nature.

"But he can! You don't know." Seraphina twists in my embrace. She peers up at me with doleful eyes. Again I fight against the urge to run away with her now and never look back. I was so determined to wash my hands of her this morning, but when she is near I cannot harden my heart. What is this cursed emotion? As though someone is squeezing all the breath from my lungs, scraping my eyes from their sockets, crushing my skull between what I've always known and what I never knew existed.

"Tell me then, Sera." I cup her face in my hands, urging her to confess what is plaguing her. Does she not trust me; after all we have endured together?

"I…I…Lancelot, I cannot." She tries to pull away, but I do not let her this time, though I know I should.

"Is it something the Bishop has said? He's an old fool, Sera! Don't believe his forked tongue lies." Seraphina shakes her head adamantly. Her face is puffy from crying. I brush a smudge of graveyard dirt from her cheek. Boldly, she takes my hand and kisses my fisted knuckles. Her thin arms wind around my waist tightly. For a moment, I stand frozen, unsure if I should react. This is wrong. I will follow my orders…I will forget her…I will…

"I love you, Lancelot." The world slips beyond my grasp. How many times have I heard those words from the lips of women? But never has it frightened me so and never has it sounded as pure. I can hear the dead mocking me. _Cruel isn't it, old friend. You lived this long just to be struck down by three simple words._ I won't allow it!

"No." The expression on Seraphina's face is unbearable as I shove her aside. I've seen it a thousand times before; desolation. She looks like the little girl she truly is without the brave face and stubborn stance.

"Never say that, Lady Seraphina." The rejection stings my throat. If Arthur's Hell exists, I have no doubt it is where I am headed. Sera does not cry or stomp her feet in indignation like I have known some women to do. She closes her eyes, inhales deeply, and reopens them. All of the anguish is gone just as quickly as it appeared. She is a blank slate reflecting the world and hiding herself behind it.

"My apologies," she states coolly, her slightly trembling lips giving her away. "I am not myself this morning, but have no fear. I will not make a mistake such as this again."

"Lady Se-"

"The others will be waiting for us, no doubt. I do have a wedding to attend, after all." Sera's apathetic tone is a slap to the face. She steps around me, not bothering to wait. I'm left alone with the taunting ghosts and my own stupidity. She was not mine, but she could have been!

"Of course not, you idiot! She's to be married," I hiss. Her confessions hangs in the air all around me. _I love you, Lancelot._ Some things just were not meant to be. We are one of those things. I did what was necessary and should feel no shame for it.

I shall be weak no longer. She is a woman and a Roman, absolutely a waste of time. I have given her enough as it is. Regardless whether she's wheedled her way into my mind, I am a man of reason, not passion. We will deliver Seraphina to her betrothed and I will continue my life as a free man.

_I love you, Lancelot._

I brush the memory from my thoughts.

* * *

~Seraphina~

Why did I say that! What ridiculous rationalization brought those damned words about? None whatsoever! There was no reason for it…but his hands were so warm. An echo of shivers rolls down my spine at the memory of being trapped in his embrace. Lancelot's agonizing eyes, dark pits of endless mystery. If I were a poet, I could have written a thousand sonnets in the moment where we hung above time and space. I feel bereft now that I am holding him no longer.

These feelings have bubbled up from seemingly nowhere. Is it a flight of fancy brought on by too many sleepless nights and painful days? Surely my mind is clouded. Oh, but those three words sounded so pristine against the dawn!

I know love. It is a brother's laughter and his arm thrown companionably across your shoulders. It is the light in a little sister's eyes as she begs for stories, a mother's lullaby, a baby's coo, a father's gentle guidance, and a friend's comfort in the darkest moments of night. I have felt love in a million different ways; both warm and cold, but never hot. Though I blush to think of it, hot is the perfect description of how I feel when Lancelot is present. My soul burns. There is nothing comforting about the flames greedily devouring my flesh. I have known love when it hurts most, but this torment is frighteningly new.

Should I not have seen it coming? Flipping through my memories, it all seems too disgustingly obvious. Have I not already admitted to myself that I love him? But not in this way! As a mentor, a guardian, a fellow prisoner in this plot, but not as a man. Is this fever a new form of love or insanity? I am clueless. Blurting out something so…so preposterous without even contemplating the truth of it or the adverse effects was possibly one of the most idiotic things I have ever done.

And his rejection! I did not expect him to leap for joy, confess similar endearments, or some such nonsense. He was simply trying to comfort me. Of course, Lancelot _cares_ for me. We're so tied up in one another, bound by everything that we've been through, but none of it suggests he should love me. Again, there is no reason at the pain I feel at his reaction. I felt him harden beneath me, every muscle taut.

As I crest the slight hill and see the open gates of the fort beckoning me forward, like the cavernous mouth of a beast prepared to swallow me whole, I cannot make my feet go further. I bury my face in my hands and scream in muffled frustration. Only the faintest of sounds escape between the cracks in my fingers.

I'm to marry a Saxon prince by the end of this month! I will be his queen, share his bed, and bear his children. There will be no love and perhaps that is for the best. All these women who prattle about the joy of a love match, but if it amour means I must feel as though I'm being roasted alive every moment he's near, then I want none of it. Though the safety I find in his arms and the unusual flutter in my belly is not always unpleasant. Or the…

"Stop this!" I hiss, beating myself into submission. If I truly do love him, then I will march straight through those gates, climb into my awaiting carriage, and not speak another word about this. If I love him I will sacrifice everything to give him freedom. This is the question I have come to. After all, isn't that what love is about? Selflessly giving all one has for the sake of another? Alex and Papa forfeited their lives. Mama shielded Theo with her own body. Eoforhild fought her way through a circle of cold-blooded warriors to come to my rescue. Surely I can sacrifice my heart.

I stare ahead, teetering on a line of indecision. There is still a chance to run. None of the knights will stop me. I have been strong enough to refuse such cowardice, but now that the moment has finally arrived, I am hesitant. There is no turning back once I pass through those gates.

I think of the life I shall live in Wessex; cold and lonely. Then I think of my knights and Arthur. I close my eyes and remember a dream I once had. We were in Sarmatia. I was waiting in front of a cozy little cottage, smoke rising from the chimney, that was surrounded by sweet, meadow grass. Waiting for the knights to return from a hunt. Their laughter reached my ears before them. I watched as they trekked closer, all smiles and careless ease. Tristan's hawk swooped overhead in lazy circles. Galahad dropped a plump hare at my feet, his boyish face alight with pride.

"A token of my affection, my lady," he teased.

Then the scene shifted to one of Lancelot and me strolling along a quiet path, worn by the patter of many feet before us. The sun was setting on a glorious days, dappled light painting the forest golden. We did not know where we were going, but it mattered not. He stopped me suddenly, kissing me tenderly in a way that he certainly never has before. As we stood there together, motionless on the path, I asked him to tell me something, anything. I asked him to tell me that we would be alright.

"We are free," he whispered. Then I awoke, as I do now.

"You are free," I sigh, opening my eyes and taking a step forward. I guess it is love after all.

* * *

~Galahad~

Sera and Lancelot have yet to return. I shift from one foot to the other, trying to even out the weight of my armor. Arthur does not expect us to run into trouble, but precautions must always be made. The sun is steadily beginning to climb. It will be a pleasant day, of course. When I actually wish for overcast skies and dismal rain, there is not a cloud overhead. It is a heartless world we inhabit.

The courtyard is eerily subdued. Even Bors and Vanora are silent. What is there for any of us to say? Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Guinevere idling by her impatient mare. The animal paws the pebbled ground as her master absently tries to soothe her. Guinevere's thoughts are elsewhere. Her sight drifts through the gate, out to Hadrians Wall.

Not for the first time, I wonder what it is she is doing here. Over time I have grown to respect the Woad woman. I clearly remember the day Arthur brought her out of the depths of Marius' dungeons. Even then she was a force to be reckoned with. Seeing her now, ready to ride out with us on our last mission, makes me nauseas, however. She represents my guilty conscious.

Since Guinevere's revelation, I have not had the chance to speak with her. I'm not sure I would have anyways. To be out done by a woman in bravery! It is quickly becoming a sore blemish on my pride, what little there is left of it. Running a hand through my tussled hair, I sigh. _You're such a hero, Galahad. Abandon your friend to gain your own selfish desires while a woman, no less, does what you cannot._ I mock myself constantly.

"Ah, here they come." Gawain's exclamation turns my thoughts away from self-torture. True to his word, Sera is striding quickly through the gates. She is a vision of white and tranquility. I find myself breathless. Not even Gawain can think of a bitter remark about her today. Sera is a Princessa. She is an angel. My guilt dissolves for a moment, lost in her light. She sees me and smiles. As Sera moves closer, I notice that her eyes are slightly bloodshot. Apparently, even angel's cry. The guilt returns full force.

"Where is Lancelot?" Arthur's voice carries over the silence. Sera glances swiftly through the gates.

"He is coming," she speaks smoothly. Sure enough, Lancelot's unmistakable form appears in the near distance. Bishop Germanius steps forward. He mumbles a few foreign words, a prayer no doubt, while resting his palm flat against Sera's brow. She remains expressionless.

"May God be with you, my child." The Bishop's voice is oily. It makes my skin crawl and I find myself hovering on the border of their tight knit triangle. Arthur's jaw is clenched. Sera, however, smiles graciously.

"I would not ask God to go where I am going," she replies lightly. "He may stay here with you."

"That is if he can bear the stench of his holiness," Gawain snorts under his breath. Bishop Germanius is unfazed. He turns to Arthur and repeats his prayers. I grit my teeth together, resisting the urge to unleash my temper. _Pompous ass._ My first act as a free man will be to gut him and strew his organs along the Wall. Everyone will know that they are the innards of a man of God.

"I have faith that your journey will be swift," Bishop Germanius begins. Only bits of his long winded speech connect in my mind. _God speed, God's grace, God blah, and God bleh._ I hardly realize he's gone, retreated safely into his lavish quarters, until the other men begin to bustle again.

"Bastard doesn't even have the balls to see us off," Bors grunts as he passes.

"I'd be surprised if he had any balls at all." Sera's bemused voice trickles over me. The three of us stare at her with unconcealed amazement. She simply smiles. Gawain tweaks the cross hanging proudly from her neck with a twisted grin.

"With a tongue like that, should you be wearing such an emblem?"

"Sir Gawain, I merely speak the truth. Surely that is no sin."

"Well said!" Bors cries, thumping her on the back. Gawain turns to his horse, rolling his eyes, but I see a hint of a smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

As the other knights fiddle about with last minute matters, obviously procrastinating, I take Sera aside from the crowd where we are partly concealed from prying eyes. Instantly, her serene mask melts away. She rakes her fingers through her hair and rocks on her heels nervously.

"Well, this is it," she states. I move to wrap my arm around her, but she shakes her head and gives a weak grin.

"None of that, Galahad. I'll only break into tears again, and I've already acquired a nice headache from so much crying as it is."

"You don't have to be brave." Sera nods in the direction Bishop Germanius just disappeared, her chin jutting forward stubbornly.

"I shall sob some more in the carriage, no doubt, but not here with everyone watching. I'm a Princessa, after all. Wouldn't want to disgrace Rome," she sneers. Disregarding her earlier protests, I pull her into a brief embrace. Even Sera puts me to shame with her courage. I lean back and kiss her forehead. Like she predicted, fresh tears have become to bud in her eyes. Sera wipes them away with a sniff. She inhales a few deep breaths, regaining her composure.

"It is time," she declares. Looking around, I notice that her assessment couldn't be any more accurate. The others are saddled and ready to ride. Every face is grim.

"Aye, your carriage awaits, my lady," I tease halfheartedly, looping my arm through hers. The crowd watches in respectful silence as I lead her to the coach, provided by Bishop Germanius. _How very kind of him, _I think to myself sarcastically. Sera will arrive in Wessex the banner of royalty. The Bishop knows how to work his assets. I open the carriage door, bearing the Roman church's symbols, and offer Sera my hand. She scoffs at the gesture.

"I'm hardly an invalid."

Holding her head high, she turns to look at the sea of faces who have gathered to watch her departure. Though they do not understand the gravity of this morning, the commoners residing within the fort are somber. Sera's level gaze passes over them. Her eyes are misty as they reflect the multitude of grave expressions. In a simple move, she lifts her right hand in a slight wave, before clambering up the carriage step.

As she disappears into the dark recesses of the coach, the unmistakable sound of ripping fabric shimmers through the air, followed by a muffled curse no one but me hears. I push back my laughter as I close the door firmly, imprisoning her inside. Climbing into Vulcan's saddle and falling into rank beside Gawain, I feel as though I've left my spirit on the ground. Only the shell of my corpse rides out this morning, into the pale light of dawn. The darkest dawn of all.

Arthur gives the call to move forth. As we filter in military formation through the fort gates, the crowd erupts into an incomprehensible rumble. One voice rises on the wind, quickly joined by a cacophony of cries. The noise reaches a tumultuous peak. I cannot decipher if it is one of good will or ill, but it chases us all the way to Hadrians Wall. Only when it fades do I realize what they chanted.

Slainte mho agus a h-uile beannachd duibh. An ancient blessing from this cursed land. It means more to me than the Bishop's stale prayers. I repeat the phrase over and over again as we rush headlong into the victorious sunrise. Alas, our funeral march has begun.

* * *

**PiscesWeb25: **Hm, glad I could ease the back-to-school torment somewhat. Today was my first day back as well. Thanks for your review, as always :D

**A/N: **Sooo, time for me to complain again. First, let me begin by admitting that this is in no way one of my better chapters. I tried. Secondly, I apologize for the wait between chapters. Finishing summer homework, which i always put off to the last minute, drained me of any writinf energy. Now that school's in full throttle again, I may not be able to post as frequently, but have no fear! There will be no month long intervals between chapters!! Maybe a week or two. Thirdly, **FEEDBACK** is mucho helpful, even more so now with the inspirtation starting to lull. I need your help to keep going. I'm at a bad place in this story (getting unmotivated is dangerous), so it's up to you guys to keep me on track if you want to keep reading.

Well, that's all folks. You know the drill. Read&Review&Enjoy


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